


copacetic

by hyperphonic



Series: in bloom [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, ben "not now boner" solo, ben is the tattooed lead guitarist in a hardcore band, kickass female friendships, poe dameron: cockblock king, rey is feeling A Lot of Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperphonic/pseuds/hyperphonic
Summary: “Ben Solo.” Rose supplies as they sit outside in the drizzle after the set. Jess smokes beside them, the smell of lit reds and steady rain soothing some of the wild energy in Rey’s chest. “He joined the band about four months ago,” her friend muses as she reapplies lipgloss, “really took their sound in a new direction, he’s quite talented.”





	1. untitled

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: the only thing i own is my sick ass casual sex friday mug

Rey has learned over the course of her short, hard life, that very rarely does anything good last. It’s a kind of comfort, she supposes, knowing that regardless of how great something may be at the time, there is an inescapable transience to it. The fact grounds her, helps keep the soles of her feet planted a little more firmly beneath her legs. It’s what she clung to through a childhood spent trudging from home to home, and it’s what she clings to now, laid back in her unmade bed like a corpse at a viewing.

 

It’s been three weeks since she’d walked out of her then-boyfriend’s house. Three weeks since she’d turned her back on his sharp eyes and sharper tongue, three weeks since she drove home mutely, too in shock even to cry. Three weeks of complete apathy as she listlessly goes from bed to work and back again, hardly cognizant of the motions as she goes through them.

 

Rose and Jess take up residence in her little loft, bringing with them duffle bags filled with overnight clothes, and the quiet bustle of friends who care. Rose is the one who lays with her at night, confirms the fear that lingers in Rey’s stomach.

 

“It was abuse,” she whispers into the thick air of Rey’s bedroom, and the words fall like bullets, “I’m so glad you left.”

 

Rey doesn’t feel glad, she doesn’t really feel anything; hasn’t since last March. They study the ceiling in silence, and Rey wonders if she’ll ever feel anything again.

 

It’s with listless horror that Rey realizes she doesn’t really know who she is anymore; that the pillars her identity had sat upon were toppled long ago. Rose promises that it will be alright, that they’ll figure it out together (like they always do), but Rey isn’t so sure. This city feels like a grave, and she’s nothing more than a barely corporeal apparition.

 

Months pass, and summer starts to give way to the weak, watery sunlight of fall. Feeling has, for the most part, returned to Rey’s extremities. She can feel her fingers again, textures and temperatures permeating the sterile bubble she’s lived in for the past three months. Rose and Jess no longer stay every night with her, though they still check in every day, and more often than not Rey finds herself crashing at one of their places when her bed feels too big. Healing, Rey reminds herself, is a nonlinear process (she at least feels human again, and for that much she is grateful).

 

It’s nearly halfway through September, and Rey has no idea where June, July, and August went. She vaguely remembers throwing up off of the dock at Rose’s parent’s cabin on the fourth of July, definitely (albeit hazily) remembers spending most of August floating in the lake, passing joints back and forth between the three of them. The rest of her lost time is a mystery, either forgotten or purposefully locked away along with the rest of the spring and early summer. Red-gold leaves crunch beneath the heels of her boots as she heads into work, coffin on her back and toes going numb again in the sharp morning air. It’s not even nine and she’s already dreading another Friday night spent alone.

 

The first half of her shift is uneventful, the café bustling along at a manageable pace. She’s made three lattes, two mochas (one with extra whip), four sludge cups, and a pourover when Rose bounces through the double doors, Jess in tow. Her friends grin and wave, three people back in the line. Rey breathes deeply, tries to shake the lingering shadows from her eyes, and musters a smile when they come to stand across the bar from her.

 

“Hey you!” It’s Rose who speaks first, cheeks a pretty pink against the green of her scarf. Jess smiles from over her shoulder, and Rey feels a rush of affection for her friends.

 

“So since you’re working midshift,” Rose begins, idly blowing the steam from her drink, “you’ll be off around eight, correct?” Rey nods her confirmation, wipes the steam wand in front of her and sets a finished drink down.

 

“Latte on bar!”

 

Jess takes a careful sip from her drink and fixes Rey with a stare. “Poe’s band is playing a show tonight at the new venue by the wharf.” Rose squares her shoulders as if she’s bracing for an argument. “We want you to come with us.”

 

Rey pulls a shot and considers the offer; at the very least, a show sounds better than laying alone in her mausoleum of a room.

 

“Yeah, ok.” Her friends blink, clearly surprised by how easy the whole interaction had been.

 

“Well,” Rose tips her head to the side, “in that case, just meet us there once you’re off tonight. I’ll text you the address.”

 

Rey pours a (sloppy) tulip into the drink she’s working on and gives a nod, eyes focused on the task at hand. Her friends gush on about the band: how exciting it will be to see Poe and Finn doing what they love, the drama surrounding their new guitarist, how nice the new venue is. Business picks up, as it usually does in the mid afternoon, and before long Rey is switching over to a till shift. Pleased with their work, Rose and Jess say their goodbyes and leave in a flurry of excited energy, already discussing their plans for the night.

 

True to her word, Rose texts Rey a few hours later, and the brunette idly plugs the address into maps while she takes her break. The venue is about a fifteen minute drive from the café, located just across the train tracks from the port proper. She looks down at her ripped jeans and coffee stained boots; at least it’ll be dark. With a sigh Rey finishes the neglected energy drink in front of her and re-ties her apron, she’s only got an hour and a half left in her shift (but time hasn’t passed normally since June).

 

By the time Rey steps out into the cool, autumn air it is nearly nine. The other half of their closing shift had been running late, and Rey wasn’t about to just leave a singular barista stranded on Friday night. Clouds had rolled in over the last hour of her shift, and now the air is filled with a steady rain, turning the same leaves she’d crunched through on her way in to mush beneath black boots. Her phone is alight with texts from Jess and Rose, worrying that she’s going to miss all of the openers _and_ Poe’s band. Rey rolls her eyes at her friends, and assures them that she is on her way as she ducks into the shelter of her car.

 

The rain only gets heavier as she approaches the port, drops falling fat and heavy on her windshield while she pulls keys from the ignition. The venue appears to be a repurposed warehouse, the low thrum of base pouring out of its ramshackle walls. Heedless of the rain, the gravel parking lot is filled with show-goers and the smell of weed; Rey does her best not to make eye contact with anyone as she picks her way across the street to what she assumes is the entrance.

 

A text from Rose ( _hurry they’re setting up!_ ) pings against her wallet as Rey pays the five-dollar cover; with only a little trepidation, she sets off down the long hallway that leads to the stage. The first thing she sees upon exiting the hallway is a man with violently pink hair working what appears to be a merch table. He gives her a friendly wave, and Rey inclines her chin before continuing to search for her friends in the crowd. It only takes a few minutes of searching to find them, pressed up against the wall closest to the stage: Rose flirting shamelessly with Finn, and Poe hauling amps up onto the stage while Jess tapes wires down (clearly doing Finn’s job).

 

It’s Poe who spots her first from his vantage point onstage, grin pearly white and flashing under the venue lights. Rey heads their way right as the lights go from green to red, the screen behind Poe flickering once before coming online with his band’s logo.

 

“I’m so glad you’re here” her friend exclaims, exuberant as he jumps off the edge of the stage to hug her (Rey tries very hard not to flinch at the physical contact). Jess, Rose and Finn aren’t far behind, crowding around her even as the other band members start to file onstage. There’s a moment of exuberant greeting, everyone buzzing at the fact that Rey had _finally_ made it out to one of their shows. But then one of the guitarists starts to warm up with a fast little riff that sends goosebumps up Rey’s arms, and prompts Poe to give Finn a look before the two say their goodbyes and join their bandmates on stage.

 

“We should get off to the side,” Jess wisely states as Finn takes his place behind the drum kit and the other audience members start to close in against the front of the stage. “There’s no way a pit isn’t going to open up.”

 

From their position to the left hand side of the stage, Rey has an unobstructed view of Poe peacocking behind his microphone and the lead guitarist studiously adjusting the tune of his guitar.

 

“He’s the new one,” Jess leans over to whisper against Rey’s ear, suspicion evident in her tone. Rey turns sharp eyes over to the man on stage with her friends, he certainly _looks_ worthy of suspicion, all broad shoulders and tattoos. Rey follows the twitch of his forearm as he strikes the opening chord, eyes narrowing at the toss of dark curls from his eyes. Feedback howls through the tiny venue, and the electricity is nearly visible (Rey imagines it cracking through the air over the roiling crowd). Rose presses forward to get a better view of Finn at the back of the stage, and Jess tugs her just a half step away from the wall.

 

The feedback builds in a furious crescendo before being cut off by the sharp pull of guitar. The new man is clearly very talented, brow knit as he executes run after run of tightly packed chords. Poe’s vocals come in over the top, and suddenly the drums are there too, tearing the band away on a whole new tempo. The crowd reacts violently, whipping themselves into a flurry of punches and two-stepping; Rey suddenly finds herself grateful for their spot near the wall.

 

The song ends abruptly and the crowd stills with it, energy barely contained as Poe takes a long drink from his water bottle before stepping back into the mic.

 

“We are First Order,” the cheer that erupts sends even Poe’s eyebrows up into his hair, “thank you all for coming out tonight, and thank you _especially_ to all the bands who opened.” Finn punctuates the statement with flurry of beats, and then they’re off again, the next song building even higher than their first.

 

Poe, it appears, is a natural performer; shoulders loose as he howls into the mic and incites the mosh pit in front of them to madness. Rey half expects him to launch into the crowd himself, but he never quite does. Behind him, Finn commands the drums, laying out beats so technical and fast that Rey is honestly surprised the rest of the band is able to keep up, to match pace with the driving rhythm. The whole thing is really a sight to see, sends Rey’s heart pounding in her throat with every nuance of the music.

 

Her eyes, however, cannot seem to stay away from the lead guitarist for very long. His presence is commanding, utterly lacking in the sheer volatility of Poe, or the undeniable spark of Finn, but magnetic somehow. Where his bandmates throw energy out into the crowd, this man seems to take it, curl it inward as he rails on the hot-rodded Stratocaster in his hands. Rey watches eagerly, kept only from crossing to the stage by the mass of thrashing bodies in front of her. He’s spectacular, powerful in a way she’s never seen before; commanding attention and sending her poor heart stuttering with every dip of his head to the beat.

 

For the first time since the snow had begun to melt, Rey feels something.

 

It’s small, this something in her chest, nearly drowned out by the vibration of the bass that rattles her ribcage, but it is there. Hardy in the same way the vines she’d tried to grow as a child had been, pushing their way up through arid soil ( _like her_ , a quiet voice supplies). Rey doesn’t realize she’s staring, steadily watching the way he moves into the music until she’s been caught. Dark eyes glance up from the strings to capture hers from across the pit, and Rey feels entire galaxies flare to life in her chest.

 

“Ben Solo.” Rose supplies as they sit outside in the drizzle after the set. Jess smokes beside them, the smell of lit reds and steady rain soothing some of the wild energy in Rey’s chest. “He joined the band about four months ago,” her friend muses as she reapplies lipgloss, “really took their sound in a new direction, he’s quite talented.”

 

Rey nods, holds out a hand to take a drag of Jess’s cig, and prods further.

 

“What else do you know about him?”

 

“Well,” The shorter girl leans back against the dirty white wall of the venue, “he’s about two years older than us.” Rey nods, watches a cop lazily cruise through, “grew up with Poe out of town,” _that_ was definitely good information to have, “and he has a pretty serious girlfriend.”

 

Rey scowls and hands the cigarette back to Jess.

 

“Oh.”

 

And, as if summoned by their words, First Order ducks out the back door and into the rain. Poe comes first, an amp in each hand that don’t at all deter him from flashing the girls an exuberant grin. Next is Finn, half the drum kit in his arms and a huge smile on his face that somehow Rey knows is only really for Rose. Ben (she rolls the name around in her head, decides she likes the shape of it) exits last, and Rey is exceedingly glad for Jess as she passes the red back to her. Smoke and tobacco sit heavy on her tongue as she exhales, watches him through a cloud of smoke when he leans down to press a kiss against the lips of the girl on his arm. Just like they had onstage his eyes turn to her, heavy and dark over the top of his girlfriend’s head. Rey takes another drag before flicking the butt to the wet gravel and digging her heel in.

 

Jess rises, reacting to the delighted cry of Rose from the direction of the band’s van, and Rey stands along with her.  The rain beats a staccato against her jacket, and Rey does her best to focus on the crunch of gravel beneath her boots, or the way the sky has gone navy with dwindling light and the rapidly picking up rain. _Anything_ but the heavy stare that bores into her back (it doesn’t work, and she thinks about it all the way home).

 

The rain persists for four days straight. Four days that Rey spends pillowed back against her bed (she’s gotten the fitted sheet on, this time), wondering about Ben Solo, and the funny way he made her chest feel. She finds out on the second day, sitting with Rose on her kitchen floor, that Ben’s girlfriend’s name is Tara, and that they’ve been dating since high school. Rey sips on her coffee and stares at the rain where it curtains down her window, irritated that yes, now she’s _feeling_ something, but it _sucks_.

 

Rose bumps their knees together and gives a grin,

 

“Plenty of fish in the sea!” Rey tries (and fails) not to scowl.

On the third day, Rey claws her way out of bed and stands in the shower, eyes closed and shoulders slowly relaxing under the hot water. She pensively washes her hair and smiles as the smell of cigarette smoke and the dusty little venue roll down the drain. Today, she’ll go get a beer with Jess and Rose, and it will all be alright (she doesn’t believe it, even as she thinks it, but it’s worth a shot at least). Everything is copacetic, she affirms, even as the razor skips and nicks her ankle.

 

Rose chooses a brewery downtown, a local hub that nearly always has a thirty-minute wait list. But the food is good and the beer is better, and even though it’s still raining there are fire bowls on the roof (Rey doesn’t really feel like being inside anymore, so she agrees). Jess picks her up about a half hour after Rey exits the shower and slips into clothes that don’t smell like coffee or cigarettes, car silent save for the quiet music she’s got turned on. Jess is good for companionable silence, something Rey has come to deeply appreciate in the last few months. It feels _good_ to just be near someone, to not have to talk in endless circles, pursuing objectives with no real desire. Together they watch the city loom ahead of them, towering building tops lost high in the clouds.

 

Rey finds herself glad that for once, the weather reflects her current mood. The day she’d done it the sky had been a nearly painful shade of blue, sunlight streaming golden to light up the full summer leaves that rustled above his doorstep. She remembers the dissonance between her emotions and the world around her twisting like a knife lodged somewhere deep between her second and third ribs.

 

Jess parks the car, and Rey feels the tension in her shoulders relax (if only a little) as the rain patters down against bare skin.

 

The brewery is quieter maybe that Rey’s ever seen it, probably entirely on account of the fact that it’s two pm on a Tuesday. Their little party is seated almost immediately, and it isn’t long before they’ve fallen into their usual routine. Rey lounges with her back against the wall and her legs spread out along the booth, both her and Rose’s water pulled over towards her side of the table. Jess and Rose sit on the other side, perusing the menus idly as Rey thumbs through the draft list (far more invested in a beer than a salad).

 

“There’s another show this weekend,” Jess throws across the table, wise eyes turning towards Rey, intent barely hidden. “It’s a house show on the West side of town,” throat suddenly dry, Rey reaches for Rose’s water, “you should come with us.”

 

Rey thinks of Ben’s heavy stare from across the venue, and feels a secret little thrill in the pit of her stomach at the thought of that in such an intimate space. The hand not clutching Rose’s water comes up to twirl a loose strand of hair, and Rey nods contemplatively.

 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

The next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion. Jess and Rose both freeze, faces caught halfway between sudden horror and glee at Rey’s decision to go out with them. Weak autumn light streams across their table only to be interrupted by what Rey assumes is the source of her friend’s sudden distress. Two sets of eyes slide from what Rey can only guess to be their server to her face, and she barely has time to furrow her brow suspiciously before her whole world is thrown off its axis.

 

“How’re you doing today, Ladies?”

 

Rey’s never heard his voice, but she doesn’t need to look up from her position against the wall to know that it’s Ben. Her friends confirm her fear, sitting up straighter and grinning brightly (Rose), and cunningly (Jess).

 

“Hey Ben!” They chorus, and Rey deeply considers slithering under the table.

 

Through sheer force of will Rey forces her eyes up from the beer list held weakly in her hands (and is somehow still surprised when the sight of him knocks the wind from her lungs). He’s somehow even more striking in the daylight, dark hair slicked back, the linework of his sleeves bold against a navy company shirt. There’s a moment where his brow minutely furrows, eyes going dark at the sight of her, and Rey can’t tell if she wants to run into or away from him ( _how can anyone’s eyes be so_ expressive).

 

Jess and Rose watch the two, stopping just short of leaning across the table towards them, and Rey can _feel_ her pulse kicking up against the soft skin of her throat. She doesn’t know what to say, wants to hold her hand so close to her chest that this _man_ doesn’t get even the slightest idea of what she’s thinking. Biting her lower lip, Rey fishes her ID out of the wallet next to her on the table, and hands it to him.

 

“I’d like the IPA please,”

 

His lips quirk in what might have been a smile (Rey gets the distinct impression that his eyes are what carry the brunt of his emotional display) and he nods once before handing it back.

 

“Sure thing, Rey.”


	2. disconnect

The days between Tuesday and Saturday seem to drag on, each revolution around the sun taking what feels like at least a year to complete. Rey goes to work, treks back to her bed (she’s gotten her pillowcases on now, and each night it feels a little bit less like a casket), buys a bottle of vodka and a six pack of sugar free redbull with Jess on Thursday. Slowly, her life seems to be regaining some sense of normalcy, a purpose outside of ‘keep breathing because she has to’. Through it all, her mind keeps circling back to Ben; caught on the pluck of his fingers against brass strings, and the way his eyes had lit up a deep brown in the sun. It’s ridiculous, really, the way she can’t seem to stop thinking about him. She barely even _knows_ him, their only connection being his friendship with her core people; Rey scowls into her mirror, and brushes her teeth unnecessarily hard at the thought.

 

He’s everywhere she looks: in the full autumn foliage outside of the café, the way the lines on the road blur outside of her window at night, hidden in the space between her lips and the cigarettes she shares with Jess. Even in her _dreams_ she’s hopelessly drawn to him, this man with shadows at the edges of his eyes and magnets in his wrists. By the time Friday rolls around, all golden light and heavy clouds on the horizon, Rey feels like maybe she’s simply losing her mind.

 

“He has a girlfriend, for _fucks_ sake!” She growls to Jess one night, sprawled in the passenger seat of her friend’s car. They’re parked on the wharf, windows down and heater up as they watch the sun set. Over the course of the summer it’s become a tradition for the two of them, and the drive from Rey’s loft to the wharf is a familiar one (she thinks she’ll always associate the view of the skyline from the water with the mingled scent of reds and Jessika’s perfume). Said friend has the music set low, guitar plaintive under layers of reverb and the steady lap of waves against the landing. Rey’s words ring out over the water and Jess nods, one slim hand rising to bring a nearly spent cigarette to her lips.

 

“He does,” she agrees, and Rey studies the sweep of her nose as the sunset lights it up golden. They’re silent for a second, the song reaching a fever pitch and spilling out of the open windows.

 

“I think though,” her friend continues through a cloud of smoke, “that that’s good.” Rey squints and reaches for the pack, “because you’re in no state to seriously pursue anyone right now.”

 

They both know it’s true, and the acknowledgement sits heavy in the hazy air between them. Rey flicks the lighter absently, free hand dangling out the window; she truly isn’t ready for anything even remotely serious at the moment (the memory of Poe and his familiar hug sending her flinching out of her skin springs to mind), but it doesn’t particularly ease the sting. Jess scrolls through her music, carefully ashing her cigarette out the window before putting a new song on. The sun dips low against the water, and neither of them speak, letting the opening chords and red gold light fill the car.

 

She’s going to see Ben tomorrow, and Rey absolutely does not know what to do with that fact.

 

Saturday morning dawns clear and cold in the way only a late autumn morning could. Flinching against the sting of cold hardwood against her toes, Rey stumbles out of bed somewhere around eleven thirty to find Rose and Jess already in her kitchen. Rose grins, eyes sharp with some kind of glee Rey doesn’t even want to _begin_ unpacking, and Jess shakes her head apologetically from the coffee pot. There’s a pregnant moment of silence while they all stare at one another, before Rose opens her mouth to speak and Rey simultaneously turns on her heel to stomp back into her room.

 

“Wait!” Her friend charges after her, “ _wait wait wait._ ”

 

Rey does not wait.

 

The shorter woman follows her all the way into her bathroom, Jess trailing a few steps behind with a cup of coffee in each hand. Staunchly ignoring the pair of home invaders, Rey struggles out of sleep clothes and begins to set the temperature of her shower (hot). Her hair smells like cigarettes and harbor air, and her two best friends are _clearly_ up to no good; it’s entirely too early for this. Rose, from her perch on the sink, at least has the decency to let her get under the spray before launching into a (clearly rehearsed) speech.

 

“So,” Rey rolls her eyes, and gratefully reaches for the cup of coffee Jess proffers from around the curtain, “if you’ll remember, tonight is the house show you promised to go to with us.”

 

Jess snorts, and had she been more awake, Rey would have joined in. They all know she’s done _nothing_ but think about the goddamned house show. Or, more specifically, the dark-haired guitarist whose band was headlining it. Rey works conditioner through her hair, leans against the slick wall to let it sit while she sips from her mug of coffee.

 

“You’ll also recall, if you check our calendar, that I got paid yesterday, and I _know_ you two picked up tips on Thursday.”

 

Rey already knows where this is going, and braces for impact as she bends to start shaving her legs (the cut on her ankle from Tuesday is healing nicely). There’s a clink as Jess sets down her cup, and Rey can perfectly imagine her arching back to pop her sternum against the blue of the tile trim.

 

“So, in honor of baby’s first house show, and payday,” Jess sticks a hand past the curtain for her now empty mug, and Rey clamps the cheap plastic handle of her razor between her teeth to hand it over. “We’re going shopping.” Resigned to her fate, Rey finishes with her right leg, steps back to rinse the conditioner from her hair, and wishes she’d asked Jess for another cup of coffee.

 

Shopping with Rose Tico was, for lack of a better term, an experience. The petite woman parsed through each outlet they set foot in with a single-minded intensity that Rey had never seen anything comparable to before in her life. It’s exhausting to try and keep pace with, and more often than not, Rey and Jess wind up sipping on bubble tea and power walking to keep Rose in their sights as she tears across the polished mall floor. Today was no different: Jess held a cheap cup of mall coffee in one hand as she mildly sifted through the clearance rack, Rey really only pretended to examine the dress in front of her, and Rose was up to her elbows with a look of steely determination on her face.

 

The brightly lit outlet they currently stood in was a favorite of theirs, with sharp style made up of leather and structured fabric on every mannequin. Even Rey owned several pieces from its windows, though they rarely saw the light of day (she felt they were simply too nice to smell like coffee grounds and café sweat), reserved specifically for going out. Absently bumping her chin to the driving beat of the synth pop playing over shop speakers, Rey moved on to the next rack and set to sorting through the dark fabric. She didn’t really _need_ any new pieces for her wardrobe, but the image of Ben and his heavy stare from the stage flashes across her mind; and suddenly Rey finds herself browsing with more purpose. She wonders what he’d look like with his brow creased, struggling to focus on chord progressions instead of the freckled skin of her shoulders. Slim fingers brush over the cool metal of clothes hangers, a plan beginning to formulate as she surveys the scantily clad mannequins scattered across the sales floor.

 

“Looking for something in particular?” Jess drawls from behind her, mall coffee long abandoned in favor of a pair of black suede boots. Ears pink, and scrambling to hide how spot on the implication behind her question is, Rey adamantly shakes her head (Jess clearly doesn’t buy it). Rose stomps over to the pair, arms loaded with potential purchases, and instantly picks up on the tension.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” Rey declares at the same time as Jess smirks, “She’s up to no good.”

 

Three sets of eyes narrow, and it’s (unsurprisingly) Rose who breaks the silence.

 

“Well,” a hand shoots out from the pile of clothes in her arms to thrust a wad of dark clothing into Rey’s unsuspecting palms, “we’ll discuss this ‘nothing’ further in the fitting rooms.” Rose flounces off towards the back right corner of the shop, Jess hot on her heels, and Rey has the distinct impression that she’s walking into an execution as she falls into step behind them.

 

Upon entering the (admittedly nice) fitting room, both Rose and Jess drop down onto the bench opposite the mirror, potential outfits heaped in their laps. Rey hardly has time to set her own pile down on the side unoccupied by her friends before Jess speaks.

 

“Shopping for Ben Solo?”

 

There’s no point in trying to keep anything from the pair of intuitive females, so Rey just rolls her eyes up to the hot pink ceiling and shrugs one shoulder. Rose claps, face lighting up with a kind of devious glee that somehow manages to fill the entire fitting room; distantly, Rey thinks she hears her death knell.

 

“Good,” her friend nearly purrs, rising from the bench, “I was hoping you’d say that.” It’s not at all the response Rey was anticipating, and she doesn’t bother to hide her confusion as Rose turns her back to her and begins sifting through the items between her and Jess with intent. Neither girl deigns to give her any kind of explanation as they launch into action, choosing to instead hand her a set of neatly paired items.

 

“He likes dark colors,” Rose smirks, nodding towards the proffered clothes. Rey’s brow knits, and for a second she stands motionless before Jess prompts her into motion.

 

“Try it on, we’re not standing in here for you to look tragic and confused.”

 

A slow smile spreads across Rey’s face as she connects the dots, graduating to a fully-fledged grin by the time she’s shimmied out of her shirt. The outfit her friends have selected is made up of ripped jeans and a shirt so flimsy Rey worries she’ll rip it before it’s even over her head. The pants she instantly loves, bending down to cuff the hem just enough to flaunt the edge of a tattoo low on the side of her leg (the shirt is a unanimous flop, and winds up on a rack outside almost as soon as it rests on her shoulders).

 

By the time they’re crossing the parking lot Rey has a bag in each hand, and a hot kind of anticipation sitting low in her stomach. Jess lazily drags on a red, clearly pleased with herself, and Rose is nearly bubbling over with pride where she struts ahead of the two of them. Rey’s struck with just how much she loves her friends, how she almost feels like her lungs aren’t filled with soil for the first time since May. The sun sits low, kissing the top of the skyline from where they’re parked; they’re just barely going to have time to head back to Rose’s and change before the show. Jess demands they stop by a gas station for a pack and a sixer once they’re in the car, and both Rey and Rose nod enthusiastically as the former reaches for her aux cord.

 

The venue for the house show is a sprawling little condo on the outskirts of the suburbs. There aren’t any neat picket fences edging lawns as they pull up to the address, but there’s an inescapable order to the house fronts behind the chaos of poorly parked cars on either side of the street. Rey smiles a little at the discord as she ducks out of Rose’s coupe, already able to hear the distinct sound of tuning guitars from the pavement. She loves this, the neat little houses lining the street, and the wail of what sounds like a Telecaster under reverb from within the garage of their destination. Jess and Rose step out to flank her, the cherry of Jess’s cigarette bright in the almost-twilight.

 

“Ready?” Rose grins, casting an appraising glance up and down Rey’s frame (they both know she isn’t).

 

House shows, Rey instantly discovers, are hot. Not in the sexual sense (though she imagines pulling Ben into a closet and can see how they might be in that regard too), but in the way that there are at least fifty or sixty bodies packed into the dove grey walls, and everyone is sweaty. She’s infinitely glad that Jess had convinced her to leave her jacket in the car, and for half a second almost wishes her barely there shirt was made of even less fabric. Rose, clearly unphased by the crush of bodies around them, heads straight for the kitchen, hungrily eyeing the slough of open bottles and red solo cups on the counter. Rey hangs back near the entrance to the garage with Jess, and observes the band setting up while they wait.

 

First Order is nowhere to be seen, save for the glint of their amps in the corner, and a set of pedals she suspects to be Ben’s beside them. Adrenaline runs thick through Rey’s veins at the realization: she’d spent the last four days agonizing over the fact that she was about to see the dark haired man again, but nothing had really quite prepared her for the reality of it all. The first band up was comprised of what Jess affectionately referred to as “crust punks”, their mohawks visible even over the crush of people that started to fill the garage as their bassist struck a few chords. Rose appears behind them, balancing three full to the point of overflowing cups in her hands.

 

“Alright,” she hands them out, and Rey takes an experimental sip (it’s vodka based, whatever it is). “Let’s do it.” The punks begin to rail on their instruments in earnest, and the three girls step into the fray.

 

They’re about halfway through the set when Jess’s shoulders tense all the way up to her ears and Rose pulls her lips into a sharp little smirk. Turning to follow their gaze, Rey raises the thin plastic cup to her lips and takes a long sip of her drink. Tara is standing in the door, backlit by the warm kitchen light. She looks horribly out of place, the lines of her shirt too delicate against the crush of sweaty bodies and leather (Rey swallows thickly, she’s gorgeous). The blonde surveys the room, eyes landing on Rey’s face briefly before flitting away again, tight at the edges. Rey feels every inch of skin her shirt doesn’t cover, the guilt in her stomach, and wants nothing more than to go hide in the bathroom.

 

It’s Jess who snaps her out of it, sensing the anxiety rolling off of Rey’s bare shoulders. The song ends, silence rushing in to fill the garage, and her friend leans in close.

 

“Let’s step outside.” Rey agrees with a vigorous nod of her head, and Rose waves at Finn as he and Poe enter (all three girls note Tara’s disappearance). The trek from the garage out to the front of the house feels like it takes nine hours. Jess weaves deftly through the crowd, tugging Rey along by the tips of her fingers. She keeps her head down, studies the scuffed toes of her boots, and hopes against all odds that neither Ben or Tara see her. Outside, night has fallen in earnest, and Rey lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as the sags against the side of the house. Jess hands her a cig, and the scuffed black lighter she’d pried the safety off of on the first of May, and Rey takes them both gratefully.

 

The air around them is filled with the happy buzz of people smoking and chatting, punctuated occasionally by the sharp drumming of the ongoing set. Rey relaxes incrementally, shoulders lowering with each smoky exhale. It’s gotten cooler in the last day and a half, and Rey’s arms are covered in goosebumps that prick when she rubs her free hand over them. Jess sips on her drink, watches one of the crust punks from the crowd inside exit into the sharp fall air and offers a private smile.

 

“Feeling better?” Rey shrugs a freckled shoulder and her friend nods, slipping back into companionable silence.

 

They stand like that through the end of the set and Rey is infinitely glad that they stopped for the pack on their way here, a fresh red resting between her pointer and middle fingers. Especially so when she glances up from the lighter in her hand to see Ben Solo striding up towards their position by the door. He spots her two steps later, faltering slightly as his eyes sweep over the line of her throat, laid bare by her pulled back hair and plunging neckline. Rey’s heart kicks, and she’s sure he can see her pulse throbbing against tanned skin. Ben takes a breath, puffs his upper lip out ever so slightly, and closes the distance between them in four long strides.

 

“Rey,” his voice is low, soft in a way that makes her want to press her fingertips to the hollow at the base of his throat. “Jess.”

 

Her friend raises her glass in greeting, and Rey struggles to manage a brief smile.

 

“Hey,” she hates the way her voice comes out breathily, ashes her cigarette for something to do. His eyes snap back up from somewhere around her collarbone, and he looks surprised to hear her speak.

 

“I didn’t know you were coming to this,” his hands are deep in the pockets of his jacket, but Rey can see his right thumb fidgeting through the dark fabric. She gives a stronger smile this time, and gestures vaguely with the hand not holding her cigarette,

 

“I didn’t either.” A lie, but one that he accepts with a nod, and something that might be a smile.

 

“You’re staying for our set?” His eyes are dark, hungry when he asks, and Rey thinks that maybe this is how she dies: cold and starving for his stare on her. She inhales, exhales, feels the goosebumps that still stand at attention on her arms.

 

“Yeah, yeah I am.”

 

Ben looks like he’s about to speak again, leaning in close enough that Rey can smell his aftershave and what she thinks is a hint of a camel on his breath, but then he stills, eyes snapping away from her at the call of his name. Tara stands comfortably inside the house, eyes lit up like stage lights as she watches them. He steps back, awkwardly inclines his head to the pair, and turns to enter the house. Rey’s throat goes dry as his shoulders recede, and she doesn’t think she imagines the fire in Tara’s stare when Ben leans down to press a kiss against her cheek. Robotically, Rey raises the now dead cig to her lips, and flicks Jess’s lighter as the door swings shut.

 

“Well,” her friend drawls, and though Rey is still staring at where Ben had been, she can hear the devious grin in her friend’s voice. “We know he likes the shirt.”


	3. decay

It’s one of those nights where Rey lays alone in her coffin of a bed and feels like she is already six feet under. The off white of her ceiling seems to drop lower and lower, inexorably pressing her down into the (cheap) mattress topper she’d bought a few semesters ago. Three am silence sits heavy on her chest, and Rey screws her eyes shut as she attempts to breathe calm into her extremities. The seconds tick by, glacially slow in the tomb like cold of her room. Her breathing only picks up, puffing cold past her lips in the dark, and Rey snaps.

 

“Rose,” she presses into the cool glass of her phone, “Rose can I come over?”

 

There’s a moment of hesitation on the other end of the line, and Rey feels her heart drop (Rose has never hesitated before). Her friend inhales, exhales, and finally, speaks.

 

“You can,” her fingers tingle with the beginning of what might be warmth, “but it’s not going to be just us.” Rey’s brows crease, and she fully expects to hear that Finn is _finally_ over in her best friend’s bed. What Rose murmurs instead is entirely the opposite.

 

“Ben is coming over,” and almost as if anticipating Rey’s (characteristically volatile) reaction, she hastily continues, “he uh- he and Tara broke up. He walked out on her.”

 

If Rey’s bed had been a coffin before, now it was a cremation fire. She sits up, heart in her throat, fingers desperately clutching the phone to her ear.

 

“Is he alright?”

 

The heavy silence on Rose’s end of the line is enough of an answer for her.

 

In the three weeks that have passed since the house show, Ben had all but vanished off the face of the Earth. They know, from the boys, that he still came to First Order rehearsals, but the band hasn’t booked a single show, and he’s been notably absent from any social gatherings. Rey thinks on him constantly, wonders how he’s been doing, if his breath still smells like camel blues (it seems now that she’ll get her answer).

 

True to late fall, when Rey steps out onto the pavement the air is thick with a low hanging fog. It smells distinctly like it’s about to rain, but it’s concern for Ben that pushes her towards the car, not worry over the weather or her own (long forgotten) anxiety. She pulls out of the parking lot with the windows down, clinging to the whip of cold air against her cheeks like a lifeline. The roads are empty, lonely in a way that can only come to be this late at night. The skyline rises and falls to her left, edges blurring into the fog lit up golden. It has begun to drizzle by the time she pulls into Rose’s driveway, and her nose fills with the smell of rain and wet leaves when she swings her legs out into the chilly night air.

 

Her friend lives in a sweet little neighborhood on the less developed side of town, where the trees are old and the back yards open out into a thickly forested greenbelt. Here, it smells like fall in earnest, of decaying foliage and the sharp sting of impending frost. The air is totally calm, allowing the fog to pool in the narrow beam cast by Rose’s porch light, silence broken only by the steady fall of rain. What she assumes to be Ben’s car is parked tidily in the driveway, the only indication of any potential distress being one partly rolled down window (she makes a note to ask for his keys so she can fix it).

 

Rey stands for a moment when she reaches the door, fist hesitating in the air halfway to knocking. She’s about to see Ben again, this time without even a modicum of social buffer. There would be no thrashing mosh pit this time, no house show filled with punks and their flashy hair; just her, Rose, and the man she’d been agonizing over for nearly a month now. The rain picks up, edging towards a frantic drum, and Rey desperately wishes she had a cigarette to steel her nerves. But she doesn’t, and so she gives the softest knock she can manage before slipping in through the unlocked door.

 

Shedding her coat as she goes, Rey ascends the stairs and steps onto the plush carpet of Rose’s living room. Light spills across the furniture from the kitchen, and it is with terribly ginger steps that she crosses onto pristine white linoleum. The first thing she sees is Rose, sitting across the table from a crumpled Ben, an untouched glass of water halfway between them. Her friend looks up and offers a sad attempt at a smile (Ben either hasn’t heard her enter, or can’t bring himself to acknowledge it). The rain continues to escalate against the roof, and Rey quietly pushes the glass of water towards Ben as she moves to sit beside her friend.

 

Ben looks like hell. Even with his eyes downcast and hood pulled up, his distress is visible, rolling off of broad shoulders in waves. She studies the planes of his face, how dark curls frame tired eyes from beneath the shadow of his hood. Even like this, exhausted and heartbroken at her best friend’s table, he is beautiful. Hesitantly, he reaches out to curl one large hand around the glass of water, but doesn’t quite bring his eyes up to the two girls across from him. They sit like that for a long time, listening to the rain and the tick of the living room clock; It’s nearly five in the morning when he finally manages to speak.

 

“I couldn’t sustain it anymore.” His voice is as unbearably soft as Rey had remembered, but now it is weak, wavering where it hadn’t before (her heart breaks a little for him). Neither her or Rose say anything in return, but Ben continues anyways.

 

“It hadn’t been good in a long time, _years_ , and I just-” He pauses, bites his lip, inhales shakily before continuing, “when she-“ another pause as he struggled for words, “tried to hold her wellbeing over me like that I couldn’t stay.”

 

Rey feels her breath rush out of her all at once, and wants desperately to reach across the table to him, but the meager distance between them feels like miles and miles. There’s nothing to say to an admission like that, and so Rey just leans her elbows against the table top and watches the way Ben’s fingers twitch against his glass. Ben continues to grip the glass in front of him, knuckles steadily turning white as the silence draws on ( _and on and on_ ).

 

“Have you eaten today?” Rey finally asks, unable to stand the silence or the way Ben looks like he might start crying. She wants to hold him; gather his frame into her arms and run her fingers through his hair until the crease between his brows relaxes. They’ve never touched, but she can imagine the way it would feel to hold him, how heat would roll off of him and into the cold spaces between her ribs. Ben shakes his head, and Rey bites her lip.

 

As a rule of thumb, Rose’s kitchen is always understocked, and tonight is no different. After rummaging for about ten minutes, Rey comes away with one pack of chicken ramen, half a bag of frozen vegetables, and a single egg. She doesn’t know what his opinion on ramen is, but any food is better than no food (she knows that better than most) and so she sets a pot to boil. Rose stands up, stretches high towards the ceiling and murmurs something Rey cannot quite catch to the man at the table. Ben grunts an affirmative, and Rose crosses the kitchen to join Rey at the stovetop.

 

“I work midshift tomorrow,” a glance at the clock tells Rey that her friend only has five hours until she clocks on, “I’m going to go catch a little bit of sleep.” There’s a scrape as Ben rises from his seat at the now empty table.

 

“You’re both welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

 

Rey cannot believe she’s so lucky as to have friends like this. Ben comes to lean against the counter beside her once Rose leaves, silent save for the unsteady tide of his breath. The water boils slowly, barely beginning to simmer when Rey reaches past Ben for a bowl to whisk the egg in.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, fingers trembling when they press against his arm to move it out of her way. It’s the first time she’s touched him, and her skin feels like fire where it brushes against the worn cotton of his hoodie. He says nothing, just watches her with ancient eyes as she cracks the egg and leans around him again to grab the whisk.

 

 By the time the water reaches a boil and she’s finally started to cook the noodles, Ben has slid down to the floor, sitting with his back against the cabinet and his eyes restlessly shut. Rey takes the opportunity to study his face, hungrily memorizing the strong line of his nose and the smattering of moles that dot his cheeks and throat.

 

She sits beside him when her sorry excuse of a meal is done, offers him the bowl and a set of chopsticks silently. Ben takes it, eyes wide and lips parted slightly; his thanks come in the form of their shoulders brushing, and the way he watches when she reaches above them to grab his forgotten glass of water.

 

“You really should drink this,” she tries, and he nods.

 

He does end up sipping on the water, sets the empty cup on the floor in front of their outstretched legs alongside the bowl of broth and abandoned peas. Neither of them move for a long, long time; and Rey doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until she’s on the brink of passing out herself. By the time Rose peeks into the kitchen on her way out the door, Ben is snoring softly, and Rey’s head has tipped to the side to rest against his shoulder. Deciding to forego coffee and let them sleep, she shakes her head with a private smile and makes a note to update Jess on the current situation as soon as she gets to work.

 

Rey wakes to the smell of laundry detergent and camel blues. At first, she thinks maybe she’s actually still dreaming, as there’s only one person she associates the combination with, and he’s been prowling her dreams for the last almost month. But within seconds of posing that possibility, she registers the watery sunlight pouring over her shoulders, and the very real ache in her lower back from sleeping on the unforgiving linoleum. Blearily opening her eyes, Rey squints and turns her head to study the dark fabric her cheek is cushioned on (it takes approximately four seconds for her to connect the dots).

 

She gasps, stiffens, and flushes from her ears to the top of her chest when Ben stirs beside her. Fumbling, Rey reaches for the abandoned dishes in front of them and rockets to her feet as her companion yawns and fully embraces consciousness. Hunched over the sink, Rey entirely misses the way he studies her back, brows knitting together pensively as one hand comes up to cover the part of his arm still warm from her.

 

“What time is it?” He rumbles, voice thick with sleep and an emotion he can’t quite describe. Rey glances at the clock on the stove and doesn’t mask her surprise when she responds, “three minutes till noon.”

 

Ben stands, cracks his neck, and Rey can imagine the way his broad shoulders nearly fill the whole of Rose’s cheery little kitchen. She hears him exhale slowly, feels the way he seems to steel himself against the cream wall paper and too-bright sun.

 

“I should go,” he sounds like he’d like to do nothing less. Rey finally turns to look at him and instantly wishes she hadn’t; he’s beautiful in the barely-there sunlight, eyes lighting up a warm brown and sending her stomach into dizzy knots.

 

“Yeah, probably,” she replies, even though she wants _nothing_ more than to ask him to stay.

 

“Thank you for making me eat,” he tries (and fails) to smile, eyes tight at the edges as she steps in towards him.

 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” Rey earnestly states, and holds out one calloused palm,

 

“let me give you my number in case you need anything else while Rose is at work?”

 

Ben studies her face, turns his gaze to the sunlight in her palm, and takes a deep breath before handing her his phone. The kitchen is silent save for the quiet staccato of her fingers as she enters her name and number, devoid of the distress that had so completely filled it just hours before. She hands the phone back with a smile as watery as the sunlight that plays across Ben’s face, and Rey finds herself fighting the urge to hug him as she murmurs,

 

“Drink water, remember to breathe.”

 

Ben ducks out into the afternoon sun with little ceremony after that, leaving Rey alone in the kitchen with his smell in her nose. She tries not to miss him, reminds herself that she has no right to the dark man, no responsibility to smooth the crease that’s set up between his brows (but the feeble attempts do nothing to stop her chest from aching).

 

 After double checking her work schedule to make sure she didn’t have to head into the cafe, Rey washed the handful of dishes her late-night ramen had produced, and padded down the hallway into Rose’s room. Her friend would be off of work in a few hours, and there was no way Rey was going to face her without at least three hours of good sleep in an _actual_ bed. The worn cotton of Rose’s duvet cover is a balm against her skin when she slips beneath it, and Rey’s head hardly hits the pillow before she’s asleep.

 

She wakes for the second time that day to the familiar sound of Jess and Rose talking quietly in the other room. Feeling oddly hungover Rey sits up, comforter pooling around her waist in the process. Judging by the lack of light filtering in through the curtains, and the fact that Jess is here, she guesses it’s fairly late in the evening (a glance at the clock on the wall confirms this suspicion). Stifling a yawn and reaching for her phone, Rey stumbles across the threshold into the living room and under the stare of her two best friends.

 

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Rose chirps, waving one hand from her perch on the floor in front of the coffee table. Jess smiles softly at Rey over the lip of her mug, shoulders loose as she reclines against the arm of the couch. The TV is on, muted as the streaming surface ploughs through an athletic wear ad, Rose pats the couch beside Jess and smiles, “pizza is on the way!”

 

It’s not until she’s had two greasy slices of the spicy pepperoni, and half of a beer that Rey thinks to actually check her phone. She scrolls as she chews, flicking past mostly irrelevant social media notifications, and banter between Jess and Rose in their group chat. It’s not until the very last notification that she takes any interest in the content; because there, hidden beneath a snap from Poe, is a text from an unknown number.

 

_Thanks again_ , it reads, _you barely know me and you took the time to help._ Rey feels her throat go dry, and sets the half eaten slice of pizza down in favor of her drink. _The world needs more people like you._ Fingers trembling just like they had against his arm in the kitchen, Rey swallows thickly and tries desperately to think of a response that doesn’t sound horribly clichéd or disingenuous.

 

“Whacha got there?” Jess asks, leaning over Rey’s abandoned plate of pizza to peer at the screen. Rose isn’t far behind, and Rey doesn’t need to look up to know that two sets of brows were hiking up towards their respective hairlines. Heart racing, she sets the phone down and tilts her head back against the cool suede of the couch. Rose hums thoughtfully, puts her food down to pull the phone closer to her for inspection, and Rey thinks that maybe Ben Solo is going to be the death of her.

 

That night, like the one before it (and the one before that), Rey dreams of dark eyes and the steady warmth of his shoulder against her cheek. But this time, she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt what the musculature of his arm feels like beneath her weight, and how his breath hitches as he goes from sleep to wakefulness. She dreams of almost October rain and the kind of fog that curls around the tops of trees and leaves droplets of moisture on the ends of her eyelashes.

 

The next morning, as she sits curled around a cup of steaming coffee in her kitchen, Rey slowly types out her response. _You’re welcome,_ cold fingers move like lead while she attempts to articulate the tangled emotions in her chest, _but you really don’t have to thank me._ Rey takes a sip of coffee and bites anxiously at her lower lip. _I’m just happy to help, you’re a great guy._ She decides to leave out the part about how her heart feels like it’s either going to stop entirely or maybe explode when she’s around him.

 

She’s halfway through her closing shift and already dreaming of crashing back into her (completely made) bed when she has a chance to check her phone again. The café is nearly empty, silent save for the quiet swell of her coworker’s playlist in the background, and the sound of the steamheads on bar. Heart in her throat, Rey leans against the back counter and pulls her phone from the back pocket of her coffee stained jeans. There are two texts from Rose regarding a show next week, and one that sends her pulse accelerating wildly.

 

_I don’t know about that,_ Ben’s message reads, burning bright against her tired eyes, _but I’m trying._

 

Rey tucks the phone back into her pocket and steals a small smile. Her fingers are warm, warmer than they’ve been in months, and for once she feels like maybe ( _maybe_ ) things are going to be alright.

 

 


	4. losing teeth

The next few days practically fly past, lost in a blur of opening shifts at the café, and late nights at the wharf with Jess. By the time the first Saturday of October has dawned, cold and clear in the way only mid-autumn mornings are, Rey feels like she’s barely blinked since watching Ben’s broad shoulders step out of Rose’s front door. Instead, it’s been ten days and she’s down to one pair of clean underwear and no pants. When Jess meets her at the laundromat they favor, she’s got a bag of laundry over one shoulder and a wicked glint in her eyes that instantly sets Rey on edge.

 

“Know what you’re wearing to the show tonight?”

 

Rey rolls her eyes and holds the streaky glass door open for her friend, unamused. Jess seems to know this, and the two of them load their respective heaps of laundry in a happy silence. The laundromat is all windows, affording them endless sunbeams to lounge in and people to watch on the street outside. It’s an odd place for two twenty-somethings to hang out in, but hadn’t stopped the pair from taking a shine to it almost as soon as they’d moved into town. Jess gives a rattling sigh, practically glowing in the sun as she reclines against one polished silver washing machine.

 

“I do have an outfit picked out, actually.” Rey admits about halfway through her second wash cycle. The woman cat napping across from her cracks one eye open and sits forward, sleep entirely abandoned in favor of scheming,

 

“Oh? Do tell.”

 

Rey dips into the basket of clean laundry at her side and pulls out a ripped up pair of black denim short shorts (that she’d stolen from Jess two summers ago), and a crop top that rode high on her ribcage to the point of near indecency. Jess’s lips pull into a feral kind of grin, and before she even draws breath to speak, Rey knows this is only going to go one way.

 

“Add fishnets,” the dryer behind Rey dings, oddly ominous as her friend continues, “wear that one leather jacket I keep leaving at your place.” Rey can picture the jacket perfectly: a strappy black number her friend had bought three springs ago, only recently back in rotation after an unfortunate incident on St. Patrick’s day involving both gin and barf. Rey smiles, rubs the thin fabric of her top between two fingers and wonders if Ben’s throat would go dry when he saw her.

 

By the time their laundry is done it’s almost five, and the afternoon sun has started to go red. Rose joins them fresh off her shift as they pack up, and together the three of them walk the short distance to Rey’s little loft.  

 

“Base out of here tonight?” Rey suggests as they set down their basket (her), and bag (Jess). Her friends nod, and almost as if she’d been banking on this the whole night, Rose procures a wad of red fabric and a sleek metal package from her purse. Rey eyes the innocuous square suspiciously, fears confirmed when Rose announces:

 

“I’m going to change out of work clothes, and then I’m going to do your makeup.” Entirely too lazy to fight Rose on this one, Rey nods, and goes to retrieve her own outfit from the clean laundry haphazardly strewn across her bed.

 

The venue for tonight’s show was a shitty little dive bar about three blocks from Rey’s loft affectionately referred to as “the Cantina”. Despite its proximity to her home, Rey had actually never been, though both Rose and Jess spoke fondly of the establishment.

 

“Bar shows,” Jess explains as she pours out shots for the three of them in Rey’s bathroom, “are a totally different beast than venue shows”. It’s nearly six, and the three of them have begun to pregame in earnest as they get ready, makeup and clothes (both recently cleaned and dirty) strewn across the cool bathroom floor.

 

“Ones at the Cantina, especially,” Rose adds, setting down the brush she’d been using to blend dark shadow onto Rey’s eyelid to take a glass with a grin. “This is going to be a _good_ night.” Rey glances between her two best friends and her own unusually sultry reflection before knocking her shot back.

 

Fifteen minutes, two shots each and one Lipstick Emergency later, they’re out the door in a clatter of house keys and high heels against concrete. Rey can already feel the familiar bubble of anticipation low in her stomach, enhanced by liquor and the dark sweep of eyeshadow. Jess and Rose walk on either side of her, thrumming with different variations of the same energy (it’s nearly palpable in the air, not unlike the cloud of perfume that follows Rose). The walk takes long enough for goosebumps to begin to rise on the backs of Rey’s arms, but not so long that her nose begins to run before they’re flashing their IDs and stepping out of the street and into the damp heat of the bar.

 

There’s still a half hour until the first set and it is already crowded to the point that Rey instantly wants to dart to the back porch and its hazy open air.  Rose, however, has other plans, and drags her two friends over to the bar, lips glossy in the low light when she tosses her hair and orders.

 

“Three kamikazes, please.” Rey groans, and Jess rolls her eyes; That’s what kind of night it’s going to be. With a bright grin over Rose’s shoulder at Jess, the bartender flies into action, motions grandiose and well-rehearsed. He’s cute, in a conventional kind of way: all light hair and white teeth when he politely refuses their attempts to pay, and leans over the counter to slide them their drinks. They’re still lounging against the sticky counter when the stage door opens; Jess shamelessly flirting with the bartender, and Rey running one finger around the rim of her empty shot glass when the first band begins to load in.

 

“First Order plays third,” Jess breaks away from the bartender to inform her, as intuitive as ever. “But I don’t think you’re going to have to wait that long for what you want.” Rey follows her friend’s gaze and, ironically, it’s _her_ throat that goes dry when she spots the source of Jess’s catlike grin.

 

Ben is shadowing the front door, eyes downcast and shoulders slightly tense as he pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his (fitted) jeans. Rey realizes that she isn’t breathing, probably hasn’t been since her eyes alighted on the long line of his nose, and takes a shuddering breath. There’s a moment, a beat where the air seems electrically charged; and Ben’s stare snaps up and across the room as if he’d felt her eyes on the hard line of his mouth. His upper lip puffs out (Rey feels her heart kick into overdrive), intent heavy in his eyes, and Rey is just a millisecond away from crossing the crowd to him when the band on stage launches into their set with an explosion of sound. Instantly Rose is at her elbow, eyes vodka bright, and strength seemingly amplified as she hauls Rey off and into the crowd.

 

“ _Rose!_ ” Rey cries, voice almost lost in the crush of bodies and the heavy bass of the band on stage. Her friend plays coy, raises her hands in a gesture of confusion, and were it not for the gleam in her eyes, Rey might have actually bought it. Jess shoulders her way through the still growing crowd, another round of drinks in hand, and Rey can’t help but look over her shoulder for dark hair and darker eyes.

 

The band, “Order 66” Jess sagely nods as she sets her empty glass on a nearby table, is actually pretty fun; loud and raucous in a way that First Order is not. They hadn’t opened up a pit, though Rey had seen a few individuals beginning to two-step anyways. There was no doubt in her mind that as soon as Ben and co. took the stage the usual wild vortex would crop up. Rey heaves a sigh and finishes the end of her beer while Order 66’s vocalist thanks the crowd, suddenly feeling entirely out of place when Finn leans down to press what looks to be a kiss against Rose’s cheek. Jess, already out of the crowd and halfway to the door, catches Rey’s eyes and nods towards the back porch. Ben’s nowhere to be seen, and Rey has no intention of intruding on the delicate moment transpiring to her left, so she nods and sets off towards the door.

 

Several things become startlingly clear to Rey as soon as she sets foot onto the smoking deck. One: Jess is either the best wingwoman in the entire world, or is completely evil. Two: her leather jacket might _look_ hot, but it certainly isn’t doing her any favors against the biting October air. And three: her nose was absolutely right, Ben Solo _does_ smoke camel blues. Said man leans against the thin wooden fencing that separates the porch from the alleyway, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other, brows knit ever so slightly (Rey’s struck again with how badly she wants to reach out and smooth the crease between them away).

 

Grin lit up brighter than the neon signs within the bar, Jess crosses the deck to perch on the empty table to their right and hands her a red; glee dripping from every word when she purrs.

 

“Well, looks like we’re getting two birds stoned at once here.”

 

Rey fights back a nervous laugh and instead holds one hand out for the lucky lighter, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as the familiar weight falls into her palm. It takes her two tries and some concentrated effort to get the cherry going, and in that time she feels, rather than sees Ben’s eyes on her. Lips wrapped tight around the filter, Rey turns, and almost wishes she had a wall to lean against when the full weight of his stare hits her. Pensively, Ben takes a drag of his camel, tongue darting out to lick his lips after he exhales (Unconsciously, Rey mirrors the action, imagines his tongue on the column of her throat). Jess snickers, and slips the half empty pack into Rey’s pocket before tossing her cig into an ash tray and ducking back inside to the tune of the next set starting.

 

Aware more than ever of his eyes on her, Rey pulls out her own phone and scrolls through her messages (Ben’s sit staunchly in the middle, teasing her as they had all week). Over the course of the next song, the porch empties out around them until there’s only Rey, Ben, and their lit cigarettes. Rey’s chest feels tight, like there isn’t enough room for her wildly racing heart and the inexplicably rapid tide of her lungs; Ben licks his lips again, glances over her shoulder at the closed door, and beckons her closer.

 

“Rey,” his voice is warm, rough at the edges with smoke, and Rey doesn’t think she’s ever heard anything sweeter.

 

It takes three strides to cross the cramped porch, and their sudden proximity has her reeling back to Rose’s kitchen and the way his hair had tickled her neck as he slept. Ben’s free hand hangs loose at his side, the slight twitch of his fingers the only indication that maybe ( _just maybe_ ) he’d like to be touching her as much as she’d like to be touching him.

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he states, unafraid of eye contact as he looks down at her, “I didn’t know if you were going to come.” Rey offers a soft smile that turns into something else entirely when she raises the cigarette to red lips and sees the hunger in his eyes.

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” the truth, unfortunately.

 

Ben ducks his head, presumably to hide a smile of his own, and Rey wants desperately to kiss him. The moment passes though, when he looks up with solemn eyes and drops his cigarette into the gap between porch and fence.

 

“Thank you again,” her throat closes up, “I don’t-“ one hand runs through his already wild hair, mussing it further, “I didn’t deserve your kindness last week.”

 

Rey scowls up at him and takes a step back, too angry at his self-depreciating words to notice the way he moved with her, keeping the distance (or lack thereof) between them constant.

 

“Excuse me?” She shakes her head, stubs out the end of her cig with more force than was absolutely necessary. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever fucking heard.”

 

Ben, to his credit, has the common sense to look taken aback. Rey folds her arms, heedless of how the action tugs her shirt up and reveals the waistband of her fishnets where it rests just beneath her bust. Judging by the way his eyes sweep over the soft swell of her breast, lingering particularly on where her nipples pebble beneath the thin synthetic fabric, before casting down to trace the line of skin above her nets and below her breasts, Ben is not. The man across from her swallows thickly, casts his eyes to the dirty planks beneath them and exhales sharply through his nose.  

 

“I don’t believe it for a second,” a lazy breeze picks up through the slatted fencing, blows the bar door open just enough to leak some of the set through, “and neither should you.”

 

Ben looks at her like maybe she’s pulled the moon down from the sky (Rey just shakes her head and tugs her shirt down against the cold). He’s hesitant, endearingly so as he takes a step towards her, comes just close enough to feel the heat radiating off of her tiny frame, and is promptly interrupted by Poe poking his head through the door.

 

“Alright Solo, time to load in, you mopey bastard!”

 

Rey thinks she’s never hated Poe more in her life.


	5. boys, boys, boys

Two mornings after the Cantina show found Rey and Rose posted up at the café, shoulders hunched conspiratorially over the former’s laptop. They had exactly ten days ahead of them to plan Jess’s twenty third birthday, a number that wouldn’t be all that significant were it not for the fact that neither Rey nor Rose really knew what the hell they were doing. As of right now, they had four things nailed down:

 

One: First Order had already agreed to play a set, and were going to contact a few other local bands about performing.

 

Two: They were going to use Rose’s house as a venue

 

Three: Hiding this from Jess was going to be nearly impossible

 

And, four: There was going to be booze (lots of it).

 

Rey takes a sip from her coffee (black) and sighs down at the guest list in front of them, a neat cross section of the music scene. It was going to be a tight fit, especially with the lower level of Rose’s two-story relegated to the house show itself.   They’ll make it work though, just like they always do.

 

“You know,” Rose begins, sipping on her late idly while she surveys the calendar app on her phone, “it _is_ October.” Rey already has an idea as to where this is going, and the smile that spreads across her face is nearly luminous. “We could, theoretically, make it a costume party.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, they both know that it has to happen.

 

The next day is spent finalizing plans with the bands; First Order is covered, Finn eagerly communicating with the two of them (though mostly Rose), in exuberant texts. Order 66 is a little harder to pin down, their lead vocalist taking _hours_ to return simple texts. The third band is a three piece of girls, spearheaded by an Amazonian blonde, who call themselves Phasma (Rey’s never heard them, but Rose assures her that their set will be incredible). They end up falling short on a fourth artist, so Poe agrees to do an acoustic set,

 

“so long as Solo backs him up.”

 

Rey ducks her head to try and hide the blush that rises to her cheeks at the thought; heart stumbling over the image of Ben’s long fingers curled around the neck of a twelve string. Both Rose and Poe clearly notice her flush, smug grins almost identical when Rey finally raises her eyes. She spends the rest of their meeting staring into her coffee and trying not to think about Ben’s fingers curled other places.

 

With three days left until the party, Rey, Rose, and Finn embarked on the Booze Odyssey (as Rey had started to call it). It takes nearly four hours to find everything on Rose’s (extensive) list, and by the end of it, Rey is listlessly sprawled in the back of Finn’s truck, a bottle of glittery liquor in each hand that were too delicate to put in the bed. In the front seat, Rose sits with her feet on the dash and two more glittery, purple bottles resting against her legs. The sun dips to kiss the horizon, and Rey finds her mind wandering back (as it always does) to Ben.

 

She wonders what his voice sounds like in the morning, wonders if it falls softly against the sheets, or if it’s rough at the edges with sleep. Wonders if his fingertips are calloused from the thick, brass strings of his guitar, and if she’d be able to feel them catch as he ran his hands across her skin. She wonders what it’s like to watch him fall apart beneath her, and if large hands would bruise her hips where they rocked into his.

 

“Rey,” Rose’s voice is light when it hits her, pulls her from the warm waters of sleep and into the twilight of Finn’s truck.  “We’re home.”

 

Rose’s house has never felt particularly small until this specific moment; filled with more bodies and glitter than Rey thinks she’s ever seen in one place in her entire life (definitely more than any show she’s been to since diving into the music scene). It’s not even nine and there are people of varying levels of sobriety everywhere, from the stairs that lead up into the living room, to the frosty porch out back. Jess isn’t even _here_ yet and Rey’s already two more shots deep than she’d meant to be, eagerly watching the door for signs of her friend as a man dressed like Dracula tries (and fails) to flirt with her.

 

His name is Derek, and Rey realizes a little too late that he’s the same bartender who’d shown such a liking to Jess at the Cantina show ( _how the hell did Rose get a hold of him?_ She wonders offhandedly). His breath fans out hot against her throat, and Rey rolls her eyes when the length of his arm brushes slowly across her bare shoulder as he reaches for his glass. By the time the doorbell rings, he’s leaning against the counter beside her, eyes hungrily tracing the dip of her waist when every muscle in her body goes tense.

 

The figure that ducks through the door is far too broad, not to mention too tall to be Jess.

 

Rey places her hand on Derek-slash-Dracula’s chest and pushes him back, suddenly hyper aware of just how little she’s wearing as Ben shrugs his leather jacket off. He’s dressed in all black as per usual, hair slicked back and away from his face to showcase the way his cheekbones catch the flashing jewel toned lights. He hangs his coat up, and someone new plugs their phone into the aux cord, filling the house with the kind of bass that rattles bones and sends drinks trembling. Rey’s halfway to calling Ben’s name when he looks up, eyes going wide at the sight of her framed in the same kitchen that not even two weeks ago he’d woken up beside her in (Rey figures that the barely-there gold bikini clinging to her skin probably doesn’t hurt either).

 

He’s up the stairs and by her side in a matter of strides, sending Dracula scurrying away with one venomous glare. Rey bites her lip, casts an appreciative glance at the way dark cotton clings tight against the hard planes of his chest, and gestures to the unreasonably stacked counter-turned-bar behind her.

 

“Want something to drink?”

 

Ben steps in even closer, driving her towards the assorted bottles until the small of her back brushes against cold tile counter, and licks his lips. Her heart all but stops, hammering away against her ribs in response to the heavy stare Ben laves against her throat and across the dip of her cleavage.

 

“What the hell is your costume supposed to be?”  He all but growls, one hand darting out to brace his weight against the counter, effectively caging Rey between his hips and green tile in the process. Rey swallows thickly, glances down at where black denim hovers blisteringly close to the metal filigree of her bikini bottoms, and tugs on the end of her braided hair.

 

“I’m Princess Leia, _duh_.” Ben’s tongue darts out to run the line of his bottom lip, and for a second Rey thinks maybe he’s _finally_ going to kiss her when a shriek that could only belong to Rose tears through the house.

 

“ _Jess!_ ”

 

Rey barely pauses to breathe a hasty apology up at Ben before charging out of the kitchen and down the stairs to join Rose in tackling their friend. They’re a tangle of limbs and laughter at the base of the stairs, tears in Jess’s eyes as she holds Rey and Rose close against her chest (It’s the second time in twice as many weeks that Rey finds herself thinking that things will be alright). Struggling to pull her head up against the weight of Rose’s arm, Rey catches Ben’s eyes from where he leans against the bannister, and feels her stomach flop when he shoots her a shy, fleeting smile. Blushing furiously, she turns back to her friends, adjusts Jess’s crooked tinsel halo, and can’t help her grin when Rose fixes her two friends with a bright stare.

 

“Alright, birthday girl is here, time for _shots!_ ”

 

She’s two shots of Jameo deep when Ben finds her again, beer in hand and clearly pacing himself before First Order’s set. It’s bizarre, to see him back in the kitchen again, eyes no longer swimming with the pain she’d seen so clearly last time; the emotion in them now is deeper, sends her stomach burning in a way the whiskey had not. Her heart beats to the drums as Phasma begins to play, and Ben takes a long, slow sip of his drink.

 

“Take one with me?” She hears herself ask over the roar of the crowd when the lead vocalist begins to sing, and does not miss the way he watches her mouth form the words.

 

“Sure,” he rumbles, and Rey wishes she’d asked him to do something else entirely when he reaches his arm over her shoulder to grab a bottle of gin. 

 

He watches her with hungry eyes in the seconds after they knock the shots back, inhales sharply through parted lips when she wipes her mouth and smiles. Rey wonders what he’s thinking, if his thoughts have gone as straight to the gutter as hers. He sets his cup down thoughtfully, gently takes hers as well to stack them as the gin settles comfortably in their stomachs (Rey does not miss the way his fingers linger over her own).

 

“I think,” Ben begins, eyes sweeping over her collarbones slowly before finally landing on her face, “that I have about twenty minutes until I have to help the boys set up.” Bold with the gin on her breath and the heat of his stare on her skin, Rey curls her hand around one tattooed wrist and drags him through the crowd and into the spare bedroom beside Rose’s.

 

The second the door closes behind them, Ben has her pressed up against it, lips wasting no time in pressing to the pulse hammering away at her throat. Rey tangles the fingers of one (trembling) hand into his hair, and presses the other to his chest, skating her palm lower and lower as he begins to drag his tongue across her skin.

 

“ _Shit,_ ” he hisses, desperately planting one hand to the small of her back and pulling until her hips were slotted against his own. Rey thinks maybe she’s on fire, burning right down to the bone when his lips find her own in the dark. The kiss is anything but chaste, all mingling breath and the slick of his tongue when her mouth opens in delight. Ben breaks the kiss to press their foreheads together, eyes wild in the flashing light that leaks through the doorframe (Rey doesn’t think she’s seen anything more beautiful). Her hand in his hair tightens, and Ben responds by pressing his weight more firmly against her, erection prominent where it digs into the bare skin of her thigh.

 

“I’ve wanted this,” he rumbles, voice nearly lost against the wail of Phasma’s guitars, “since that very first show.”

 

Rey just licks her lips and pulls him back in for another kiss, breath catching in her chest when he pulls away again to suck a bruise into the juncture of her jaw and throat.

 

“Me too,” she doesn’t even mind how breathless she sounds, not when his lips brush against one pebbled nipple through the cup of her bikini.

 

“I know.”

 

 And then his hand at her back drags to the side, tugs once at the fabric that spans her hips before running his thumb along the line where it dips between her legs.

 

“I know,” he repeats, and it sounds oddly like a prayer.

 

Her hips jerk up into the touch, and Ben Solo groans at the motion before rolling his own hips to meet it. Rey’s hand between them feathers down to brush against the waistband of his pants, and deliberately avoids the hard line of his cock in favor of teasing her way back up his chest. By the time dark cotton is bunched up against her wrist, and the fingers of one slim hand splay just beneath his collarbones, Ben looks like he’s going to lose his mind. Without warning, he hauls her up, presses her shoulder blades high against the door before letting her weight slide down to rest fully upon his hips.

 

The thin fabric of her bikini does absolutely nothing to disguise how wet she is, and Rey nearly keens when Ben gives a slow roll of his hips, cock impossible to miss as it ruts against gold nylon. Both of her hands fly down to fist in his hair, only tightening further still when he reaches up to undo the clasp at the nape of her neck. Rey watches the cups of her bikini tumble down, and the sudden heat in her stomach is nothing compared to that of Ben’s mouth as he descends on one pink, pierced nipple.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers reverently, pulling away just enough to brush wet lips over flushed skin when he speaks, “I didn’t know I’d like those so much.” Rey grins, and only responds by pushing his head back down to her breast.

 

When he’s done working his mouth over both of her breasts, Rey is wild with want above him, cheeks flushed and costume bottoms soaked through. Ben gives her a crooked grin, the first one she’s seen from him, and not for the first time Rey thinks that Ben Solo will be the death of her. Panting, she rocks her hips into him, eyes fluttering closed at the friction, and almost before she realizes what’s happening, Ben’s lifting her away from the door and making his way to the neatly made bed behind them.

 

“I’ve only got about ten minutes left,” he bemoans into the crook of her neck, callouses tracing fire into her skin where they stroke the tendon bridging her hip and thigh. Rey doesn’t even bother to fight back her whine, and Ben rewards her by pushing aside the soaked gold nylon that covers her cunt.

 

 “Fuck,” he swears again, lips pressing hot against her hip bone when he runs his forefinger down the length of her. “You’re so _wet._ ” Rey flushes all the way from ears to tits, and only manages to respond by bucking her hips against his hand. Ben growls low in his throat, clearly pleased, and slowly begins to circle her clit.

 

He’s studious as he works her, one hand curled hard against her hip, and the other maintaining a steady (albeit, torturously slow) rhythm on her clit. From where her head is cushioned against the off-white pillows, she can see the focus in his eyes; the way he bites his lips and observes, clearly filing away notes on pressure and speed for later. Rey scrabbles at the sheets, fights to rock her hips into his hand but only manages to make him press her more firmly into the mattress.

 

“Oh no,” Ben smirks, and she is wrecked, “I’m going to use all ten minutes.” And true to his word, he does, waiting until they’re nearly out of time before slipping a finger into her and beginning to pump. Like floodgates finally giving, Rey gasps, and suddenly he’s all but pounding into her, thumb rolling over her clit as his fingers work in and out at a furious pace. Rey cums with his name on her lips and her back arched off the bed, and Ben looks like the cat who’d got the cream (quite literally).

 

Panting, Rey lifts her head only to have it suddenly cradled by one large hand as Ben crawls up the bed to kiss her. It’s impossibly soft, the kiss, and she thinks that if this is how she goes: sweaty and sated and being tenderly kissed by Ben Solo, that at least she dies doing what she loves (nearly literally). He pulls away to trace the tip of his nose along her cheek, and inhales slowly, eyes softer than she’d ever seen them. Rey bites her lip, and doesn’t realize that Phasma’s set has ended until the buzz of Ben’s phone cuts through the (relative) post-set silence of the house.

 

“Shit,” he swears, reaching back into his pocket for the offending device, and sits back on his heels to answer the call. “Yes, Poe?” Rey scrambles up to sit beside him, and they share a smile when he rolls his eyes at their friend’s tinny voice on the other line.

 

“No, I’m not drunk, _yes_ I’ll be at the van in five to load in.” He hangs up with finality, and turns his attention back to Rey, top down and hair mussed. “C’mere” he murmurs, deftly helping her re-clasp the neck of her bikini when she scoots into the space between his legs. After he’s satisfied with how the shimmery gold nylon rests neatly over her chest, he presses a kiss against the nape of her neck, and Rey sighs.

 

“Well,” every line of his body screams protest when he pulls away from her to stand beside the bed, “duty calls.” Rey tries (and fails) to catch her breath as he adjusts himself in his pants, and with his hand on the doorknob, Ben glances over his shoulder to throw a wink her way.

 

“See you after the set?”

 

She waits just long enough for her heart to stop racing before following him out the door, eyes sorting through the crowd for signs of Jess or Rose. She finds them both in the kitchen, lightyears more drunk than they had been not even an hour earlier, and the next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion. Rose, clutching a bottle of the shimmery purple liquor to her nearly bare chest, shouts her name, eyes bright and grin brighter. From where she’s sat on the counter-turned-bar, the birthday girl looks up, and there’s a glorious split second where Rey thinks she’s actually going to get away with it (she does not get away with it).

 

Jess presses one palm to the chest of Derek-slash-Dracula, and the poor son of a bitch helps her down from the counter while Rose charges up to her, bottle still in hand.

 

“Bathroom, _now,_ ” the shorter woman declares, Jess hot on their heels as the three of them push through the crowd and into the diffused light of the upstairs bathroom.

 

Rey stands with her back to the mirror, and faces her two best friends plus the bottle of glitter-booze. There’s a beat of silence, save for the sound of Ben’s guitar riffing a warm up beneath them, and almost on cue the other two women break into a flurry of excited chatter.

 

“There is a _hicky_ on your _neck_ Rey!”

“I cannot _believe_ you got fucking _laid_ at my _birthday party_!”

 

And then, in tandem like only Rose and Jess could:

 

“It was Ben, wasn’t it?”

 

First Order’s set starts in earnest, shaking the house around them, and Rey’s shit-eating grin is enough of an answer alone. Rose screams, both hands raised triumphantly to the sky, and Jess pumps the air before snatching the bottle and holding it between the three of them solemnly.

 

“To Rey,” Rose nods, “to Ben,” Rey can’t stop the blush that rises to her cheeks, “to the sheets you’ll probably have to clean in the morning.” They all erupt into laughter, and pass the liquor around, luminous in the white light of the familiar room.

 

Empty bottle abandoned against the mirror, the three of them exit the bathroom a song and a half later in a wave of buzzy laughter and make their way downstairs. As per usual, the crowd has whipped itself into a pit, movements electric against the beat of Finn's drums. Derek-slash-Dracula arrives with a drink for Jess, and she presses a kiss to his neck before whispering something into his ear that Rey can only suspect to be a proposition for after the show. She’s proven wrong, however, when a song later, the bartender returns with a round of drinks for Rey and Jess: something bright and fruity on her tongue (Rey hazily remembers the handle of Malibu Finn had insisted on buying during their Booze Odyssey).

 

Ben catches her eye from across the crowd, and it’s impossible to miss the grin on his lips as he throws the band into a complicated run. One hand comes up to fondly press against the bruise on her neck, and Rey takes a sip of her drink; head spinning either from alcohol, or Ben, or both. The crowd surges around them, shouts a line of the lyrics along with Poe, and Rey realizes through the Malibu on her tongue and the press of her friends on either side of her that this is the happiest she’s been in a long, long time.

 

“We’d like to dedicate this last song to our good friend Jess,” Poe grins from behind his mic, “the one with the crooked halo on, and Dracula’s hand on her ass.” The room erupts into laughter, and Jess addresses the crowd with a bat of her eyes and a wave, grinning from ear to ear.

 

True to his word, Ben finds her after the set, cigarette in hand and shivering as she smokes on the porch with Jess (and what seems like half of the party). He gives them both a sly smile and shrugs out of his heavy, leather jacket before draping it over her shoulders.

 

“Happy birthday, Jess.” The girl in question giggles, adjusts her halo, and shoots him finger guns with the hand not holding her red. Jess takes a drag, swaying slightly on her feet, and Ben lights his own cig before smiling down at Rey.

 

“Enjoy the set?”

His double entendre is clear, and Rey grins cheekily before replying,

 

“Oh, you know,” she bites her lip, “I’ve seen better.” Ben laughs, takes a drag, and bumps his shoulder against her own; right as Jess narrows her eyes and promptly leans over the side of the porch to barf.

 

“ _Fuck_ ” Rey gasps, cigarette dropping forgotten to the frosty wood for Ben to stub out with his heel as she rushes over to her friend. Jess waves her off, clearly about to barf again, only for Rey to sling one arm over her shoulders with practiced ease. “C’mon,” she grunts as the full weight of her friend falls against her side, “let’s get you to a bathroom.” Ben takes a step forward, cigarette long abandoned in favor of taking Jess’s other arm over his shoulder. Together they get her back into the house and across the kitchen before Rose spots them and untangles herself from Finn to rush over. With the surgical precision of two women who had done this many times before, Rose relieves Ben and takes up the other half of Jess’s weight as they ferry her into the nearest bathroom.

 

By the time they’ve got Jess stable up and into bed it’s nearly two in the morning; and the crowd is down just to their closest friends, all crowded into the blue tile of the little kitchen. Rose pulls a nondescript hoodie on, and readjusts the cat ears perched haphazardly on her head as they step out of her room and back into the (now much quieter) living room. Rey, for her part, sinks deeper still into the worn lining of Ben’s jacket and follows Rose into the kitchen.

 

He’s there (of course), leaning against the counter just like he had been the last time they were in this room so late at night. However, that’s about where the similarities run short, as tonight he’s laughing, brilliant under the fluorescent lights and surrounded by his friends. Rey feels her heart stutter, remembers how her fingers had burned where they’d touched his arm, and how even his irises had looked bruised while he watched her cook. The contrast is stark, and if Rey didn’t know unequivocally that the man who had pressed her up against the wall of her best friend’s spare bed room door earlier that night was the very same, she wouldn’t have believed it.

 

Almost as if hearing her thoughts Ben looks up, follows the line of his jacket where she has it folded tight over her bust, and opens his arms in invitation. Rey smiles in earnest, and crosses the kitchen to step into his embrace. He smells like camel blues and sharp October air when he pulls her into his chest; and though his jacket is thick, Rey can still feel the heat that radiates off of him to settle against her skin.

 

“How’s the patient?” He asks into her hair, heedless of Poe’s dumbfounded expression, or the twin smiles of Finn and Rose.

 

“She’ll be alright,” and it’s true: alright, but incredibly hungover.

 

Ben tightens his arms around her and nods before turning back to his conversation with the boys; Rey tucks her nose against his bicep, and wonders at just how different this three am in Rose’s kitchen was.


	6. about u

Jess’s birthday party, not unlike some great geologic event, sends palpable waves of change throughout their friend group. It starts, perhaps most visibly, with Finn and Rose, who in the days following the party are nearly inseparable. The drummer becomes a staple in Rose’s home, happily sprawled on the couch alongside the girls as they order in pizza and watch music videos. It’s organic, feels good in the same way early morning coffee does; it makes sense. Rey watches the pair fondly, sips her beer and wishes that there was a certain, dark haired man beside her on the familiar plush of Rose’s carpet. She glances at her phone, contemplates texting him, and realizes that though she may be bold in most aspects of life, this isn’t one of them.

 

Fortunately for her, Ben actually texts her first, notification pinging against her counter early one Thursday morning as she gets ready to head to her opening shift. At first, Rey thinks that maybe she’s actually still half asleep and making the whole thing up (it is about four thirty in the morning, after all), but the sharp pain when she blearily sets one hand down on the edge of her flat iron dismisses the possibility. _Hey, I don’t know what your schedule is like,_ it begins (Rey’s fingers tremble when she unlocks her phone to read the rest), _but Poe and I are playing an acoustic set tomorrow, if you wanted to come._

Rey stares wide eyed at her reflection in the mirror (it stares back, equally shocked), and screenshots the text to send to Rose and Jess.

 

Unsurprisingly, within forty-five minutes of the read receipt popping up in their group chat, her two best friends are storming the café. Rey hears their ailing front door pushed open so quickly the bell hardly has a chance to chime, and knows without looking up from the pourover in front of her who it is.

 

“Excuse me,” Rose’s voice is already dangerously close to shouting, and Rey looks up to see the pair (hands already on hips) staring her down from across the bar. Desperate to get her friend’s voice to lower, Rey opens her mouth to speak, but is cut off almost before she even has a chance to try and draw breath. “Have you replied yet?” Several people at the table adjacent to the bar look up, ruffled by the indignant almost-shout. Accustomed to this specific brand of interrogation, Rey just shakes her head, and holds a deliberate finger up to her mouth. Rose seems pleased with this response (rolls her eyes at the shushing motion), and she and Jess both take their usual seats at the end of the bar before she continues.

 

“Well you’ll need to,” Rey rolls her eyes, “and _clearly_ you’re going to have to go to that set.” Jess nods her agreement from over the rim of her mug, and Rey can already tell the two will be here until she’s off.

 

With unsolicited help from her friends, Rey replies while taking her break, lips loose around the straw in her usual energy drink (she catches herself wishing it was a cigarette). _I open both today and tomorrow,_ _I’d love to go!_ From her vantage point over Rey’s shoulder, Rose seems satisfied with the text, presses send as Jess silently slides her own phone across the granite countertop, details on the show pulled up. The venue is Corellia, a three-story bar located in the heart of downtown, frequently used to host larger artists and rooftop shows (or so Jess informs her). According to the event page, the acoustic set will take place in a room on the second floor, no cover charge; Rey doesn’t know what to do with the information, it seems like much too intimate a venue for Ben’s stage presence.

 

She’s standing behind bar about thirty minutes before clocking off the next day, idly contemplating what she’ll wear to the show when the door opens; the smell of asphalt bathed in afternoon sun spilling in with the motion. Rey looks up, ready to greet the new customer, only to feel her heart stop as if it had crashed head on into a brick wall. Standing framed in the suddenly too small doorway of the café is none other than Ben Solo, hair wild around his face and eyes bright when he spots her. Rey forces herself to breathe, feels the smile that spreads across her face in every bone when he closes the distance between them to order.

 

“Hey,” Ben almost-smiles when he comes to stand in front of her, hips leaning against the counter with a kind of practiced ease that sends a traitorous blush across her cheeks. “I didn’t know you worked here,” he smells like camels and aftershave again, and the combination is enough to knock her flat on her ass. With him this close, it’s hard not to think back to Rose’s spare bedroom, and the way he’d laved his lips almost reverently over her skin. Lips pulling into a shy smile, Rey raises her eyes to his and gives a noncommittal shrug of one shoulder before replying.

 

“I mostly work closing shifts,” she pulls a shot, ducks down to grab the soy milk (tries, and fails to will her blush down), “so unless you drink a lot of coffee at ten pm, you wouldn’t really see me.” Ben laughs, the sound bright and warm against the smell of brewing coffee, and Rey thinks that maybe it’s the nicest thing she’s ever heard. He lingers long after she’s done making his drink, smiling and open for the duration of her time on bar; so different from the hunched figure he’d been not even two months ago, casket on his back. Ben only leaves when she rolls over to till, leaning in enough almost to brush his fingers against her own when he murmurs his farewell,

 

“I’m excited to see you at the set tonight.”

 

She finds parking outside of Corellia with a whole thirty minutes until the set starts, parallel parked not even a ten minute walk from the venue. The sun has long since dipped beneath the skyline, and mirrored buildings reflect the soft purple of twilight as she rolls down her window just enough to funnel smoke out as she lights a red Jess had left in her glovebox “for emergencies”. Hands jittery in the quickly fading light, Rey flips down the sun visor of her car and checks her reflection in the cheap little mirror. Hazel eyes stare back at her, bright with anticipation and framed by false lashes (Rose had once again hauled her into the bathroom and demanded to do her makeup). Even her lips have been carefully attended to, cupids bow highlighted against the rose pink of Jess’s favorite liquid lip when she takes a long drag from the cig. She’s nervous, more so than she’s been before any set before; and though she _tries_ (really she does) to convince herself that it’s only because she’s on her own this time, she knows in the deepest part of her stomach that it’s really a result of the undeniable shift in energy between her and Ben. It’s more subtle than the sunshine laughter of Rose and Finn, closer to the way her fingers warm up along with the engine of her car on cold mornings, gradual in the same way as frost melting on asphalt outside the café. With a gusty sigh, Rey snaps the visor up, stubs the cigarette out on the top of her left wing mirror, and double checks that she has her ID (plus enough cash for a few drinks) before ducking out of her car and into the twilight.

 

The venue is smaller than she’d imagined, stage backed up against floor to ceiling windows that look out over the city, and only about thirty chairs set up in front. Poe and Ben are nowhere to be seen, the only sign of any music taking place a lone twelve straight propped up against the far right hand side of the stage, and two chairs set center. People mill about, drinks in hand, and Rey clutches her own beverage (a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime) to her chest as she settles down into a chair center house and one row back from the front.

 

Her phone pings, lighting up with a text from Rose: _Remember to breathe, let us know how it goes!_ Rey can perfectly imagine her two friends giggling over a box of cheap wine while they eagerly wait for updates, lips quirking into an almost smile at the thought (she still wishes they were here, though). Before she can formulate a properly witty response, the seats start to fill around her, and a glance towards the stage shoves any thoughts of Jess and Rose into the back of her mind as she meets Ben’s heavy stare.

 

He’s sitting with the twelve string she’d noticed earlier in his lap, eyes dark as he studies her intently from across the room (she thinks of the way he’d pressed his lips against her throat, and suddenly the room feels like it’s a million degrees). Poe’s laughter rings bright throughout the room, and Ben snaps to attention as the other half of his duo jaunts onto stage, two beers in hand and a pearly white smile on his face.

 

“Great to see so many lovely faces in the crowd tonight,” he begins, throwing an obvious wink at Rey, “Ben and I are really excited to make you fall in love with our music, or us, whichever comes first.” Rey rolls her eyes, and Ben shakes his head as he arranges his fingers carefully onto the neck of his guitar, opening chords falling lightly as Poe takes a sip from one of the glasses at his feet before beginning to sing.

 

Their set is composed entirely of songs Rey’s hasn’t heard before; sweet little tunes that have the crowd bobbing their heads and sighing when Poe’s voice breaks a little on the more melancholy notes. It’s a stark contrast to the nearly feral music she’s come to expect from the two men in front of her; and when Ben opens his mouth to sing a soft supporting line, she feels distinctly as if she’s set her fingers against a live wire. Not for the first (and definitely not for the last) time since meeting Ben Solo, Rey thinks that she’s in way over her head.

 

The rest of the audience may as well not exist when Ben slides a glance her way, and smiles into the note on his lips when she responds in kind. Rey spends the rest of the song struggling to breathe, caught under the weight of Ben’s stare as he sings to her. When they finish, final chords falling across a rapt audience, Poe steps off the stage to greet the crowd and Ben neatly packs up his instrument before making a beeline for her. 

“Join me for a drink?” Blushing even harder than before, Rey nods and shoulders her purse as they set off away from the stage.

 

By the time Ben walks her to her car night has fallen in earnest, and the city is washed in the flat, warm glow of streetlights. It’s started to smell like rain again, and though Ben hasn’t lit a cigarette since stepping offstage, the smell of smoke still clings to the neckline of his shirt when he opens the driver’s side door for her. She’s parked street side, and the traffic is almost non-existent when Ben leans down to press his lips against hers in an impossibly soft kiss. Rey sighs, arms coming up to wrap around his neck when he pulls back just enough brush his nose against her cheek.

 

“I’m really glad you made it out tonight.” Her chest flares to life with something wild and warm that she’s never quite felt before, and Rey has to focus on the streetlight over his shoulder before responding.

 

“Yeah, me too.” His smile is brighter than any stage light, and Rey can’t help the hand that sneaks up into his hair when he kisses her again. They pull apart reluctantly, rain beginning to fall just hard enough to cover the city in a hush, and Ben braces one arm against the roof of her car when he ducks his head out of the weather and into the cab.

 

“Drive safe, sweetheart.”

 

He comes into the café two days later, carrying a grocery bag in one hand, prompted by Rey’s admission over text that she’d forgotten to grab a lunch on her way out of the house that morning. It’s a gesture so sweet that she can physically _feel_ her heart pushing against the flat of her sternum; a nervous, fluttery thing. He catches her eye from the doorway, and heads over to where she’s stationed behind the bar, working on a line of pourovers. Jess and Rose, sitting in front of the station and working on nothing in particular (as per usual), give her twin smirks, and Rey knows this will be a hot topic of discussion after her shift.  

 

The café is busy in the way it usually is on Sunday afternoons, tabletops filled with smiling families and anxious college students hunched over laptops; Ben pays none of them any heed as he walks the line of the bar, stare heavy on the slope of her cheek. He folds himself into the open seat the very end of the bar, greeting her friends with his usual almost-smile before turning laser focus onto her.

 

“I hope you like hummus and carrots,” he teases, pushing his offering towards her across the granite counter, “it was all I had left in my apartment.” Rey grins, fights back the urge to mumble that she’d probably like anything he gave her, and finishes the last pourover in line before untying her apron.

 

“I do, thanks,” their arms brush when she drops her weight into the open stool between him and Jess, the contact sending a thrill right through her. Ben grins, honest and bright in the afternoon sun, and Rey has to bite her lip to keep from kissing him right there. Completely uninterested in being a bystander, Rose leans across Jess to peg the dark man with a stare.

 

“So what’s on your agenda for the rest of the day, Solo?” Ben thoughtfully finishes chewing the carrot he’d lifted from Rey’s fingers and scratches the back of his neck before answering.

 

“I clock on at five, and then work till close.” He shrugs, “if I’m not too trashed when I get home I want to start working on some new tracks.” Her friend nods, gears visibly turning, and Rey doesn’t even _want_ to know what she’s plotting (there’s no doubt that she’s going to find out anyways).

 

Ben stays until her break is over, fingers ghosting over her leg beneath the counter when she sighs and reaches for her apron. They share a glance, and Rey is once again struck by the way his eyes light up in the sun, golden and warm like mid-July mornings. He dips his head, almost as if to kiss her, but then pulls back up (she can only assume he’s remembered that a. they’re literally in the middle of the café, and b. Rose and Jess are shamelessly craning their necks to watch).

 

“I’ll see you again soon?” He murmurs instead, voice nearly lost under the signature afternoon din. Rey nods, eyes wide and heart in her throat when she replies.

 

“Yeah I’d like that a lot.”

 

Her friends don’t bother to hide their glee as he lopes off, shoulders loose when he holds the door open for an older couple entering the café. Jess finishes her drink, lips curled into a grin, and Rose just shakes her head at the whole exchange before announcing (voice edging steadily towards inappropriately loud).

 

“We’re coming over as soon as you’re off.”

 

Rey didn’t really expect anything less, and just nods, heart still pounding at Mach nine against her ribs.

 

She’s barely been home long enough to shrug off her shirt and grab a fresh, non coffee-smelling one when Rose and Jess stomp into her loft, hauling orange juice and champagne into the kitchen with fire in their eyes. Jess goes straight for the cupboard she keeps glasses in, and Rose hands her the champagne to uncork before leaning back against the counter like some ancient queen to level a sly stare Rey’s way.

 

“So, you’re dating Ben now?”

 

Rey nearly drops the champagne and Jess snickers, turning around with three cheap flutes in her hands. There’s a moment of silence, where Rey stares disbelievingly between her two best friends, and Rose just raises one eyebrow, clearly expecting an answer.

 

“No, Rose,” Rey wrinkles her nose, wiggles the cork free with a _pop_ that ricochets around in the tiny kitchen like a gunshot, “I’m _not_ dating Ben Solo.” Two sets of eyebrows rise disbelievingly, and Rey thinks Rose might actually pass out if she rolled her eyes any further back into her head.

 

“Oh right,” the shorter woman sets about pouring orange juice into the proffered flutes, “I forgot that one hundred percent, totally platonic friends kiss outside after shows and bring each other lunch to work.” She hands a flute over for Rey to fill the rest of the way with champagne and continue, “yep, that’s what friends, and fuckbuddies, and people who have absolutely no romantic objectives do.” She nods sarcastically, and hands another flute over. “Seems pretty fucking reasonable to me.”

 

Jess laughs, eyes crinkling at the corner when she passes a mimosa over to Rose and raises her glass in a cheer (or a salute, Rey isn’t really sure which).

 

“To completely platonic relationships that aren’t dating not even a little bit nope.”

 

She wakes up the next morning to another obscenely early text from Ben (what is he _doing_ up so early), _morning sweetheart,_ it reads, and Rey has to press her forehead against her mattress for a second before continuing, _I work midshift today, you should come say hi with the girls._ She rolls onto her back, thinks about the way he’d kissed her outside of Corellia, and sends a screenshot of the text to Jess and Rose. It is the first Monday of October, and for the first time since May, or maybe March, her bed doesn’t feel even the slightest bit like a coffin.

 

Rose gleefully picks her up around two, car warm and smelling (like it always does) of flowers; city life bustles around them in the weak autumn sun, golden leaves eddying lazily in the wake of footsteps and doors. The brewery is packed, filled to the brim with business men on their lunch break, and Rey sticks close to her friend as they shoulder their way through the crowd towards the hostess’s podium. Rose is halfway through her name, and their party number when a familiar male voice cuts her off.

 

“I’ll take them in my section,” Ben leans comfortably on the edge of the podium, smirk set firmly on his lips as he gives Rey a deliberately slow once over, “a two top just opened up.” Rose’s grin on the back of her neck nearly _burns_.

 

Their table is near the back of the room, set with one edge against the window, Rey relishes the kiss of sun on her cheek when Ben politely pulls her chair out.  “New pants?” He asks once they’re sat, and Rey can only nod, blush rising to mask her freckles when he wolfishly grins, “I like them.” Rose nods when he leaves, fingers steepled in front of her mouth.

 

“Ah yes, what a heartwarmingly platonic compliment.”

 

Rey just buries her face in her hands.

 

Two days later as she’s closing the café with Jess her phone pings, disrupting the music blaring through the empty establishment, and sending Rey dropping her mop to rush over. _Closing tonight?_ Jess grabs the mop from where it had fallen against a table in the back, and picks up where Rey had left off. _Me too, meet for a drink at the Falcon?_ Her palms start to sweat as she types out her reply, and Rey begins to think that maybe she needs to start keeping a pair of clean clothes in her car for post work drinks (not dates).

 

The Falcon is a shitty little bar about three blocks towards the wharf from the Cantina; Rey’s been once or twice, but always at the end of long nights, and never sober enough to really appreciate its graffitied walls and well-worn bartop. Ben’s already there when she steps through the door, beer in his hands and signature almost-smile on his face as he chats with the bartender. She drops into the seat beside him, grins when his hand finds her knee under the bartop and gives a squeeze.

 

“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” His pupils are blown wide in the low light, reflecting the neon lights behind bar when he studies her lips. “How was closing?”

 

Talking with Ben is easy, alarmingly so, and as they sip on their beers they cover everything from his parents (an unlikely pair, from what she can tell) and her time spent in foster care, to his music degree, and her own disused Bachelors of Engineering. Through it all, his hand never quite breaks away from her leg, thumb rubbing absent circles into the soft skin bared by one particularly high rip. Around midnight he leans back, stretching inked arms up towards the low ceiling before reaching forward to brush a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

 

“Ready to go?” He asks after cashing them out, one hand sliding softly underneath her jacket to press against the small of her back. Rey swallows thickly, nods up at him with a smile, and is rewarded with a brush of his lips against her temple as Ben leads them out the door. His hand doesn’t move once they’re out of the crowded bar, and Rey can’t tell if the goosebumps on her arms are from the physical contact, or the bite in the air.

 

Like the last time, he walks her to her car, shortening the length of his strides just enough that she doesn’t have to jog to keep up. Rey finds herself struck by how he looks like he belongs against the streetlights and deep dark of almost-November ( _beautiful_ ). Her car is about a block away, and when they reach it he wastes no time in pressing her back against the cool metal to lay a series of open mouthed kisses across her throat. Rey groans, tilts her head back into his waiting palm, and all but forgets that they’re standing in the middle of the street until a car honks as it passes.

 

“Where are you parked?” She gasps, blinking rapidly as Ben continues his ministrations. He only steps in closer, cages her fully between his hips and her car, and continues his kisses lower still. “ _Ben_ ” she insists when he doesn’t reply, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair and pull him away from her skin. He grins lopsidedly at her and brushes a kiss against her nose, lets his lips brush against the skin of her cheek as he finally answers.

 

“I live in an apartment one block down from here,” Rey’s eyebrows rocket towards her hairline, and Ben takes advantage of her surprise to press a hot kiss into her lips. Cold fingers slip beneath the hem of her shirt, and to Ben’s obvious delight she can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine in response. “If you wanted,” he runs his hand lightly up her ribs, “you could stay with me tonight.” Rey blinks up at him, studies the nervous crease of his brow as she considers the offer. He shifts his weight, starts to pull away as the silence stretches on, and Rey has to pull him back into her to be able to press her answer across his lips in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

 

“I’d really like that a lot, yeah.”

 


	7. solace

Rey wakes up the next morning to sun spilling over her shoulder blades, and the now familiar smell of Ben’s laundry detergent. For a few seconds, she just lies with her eyes closed, memorizing the feeling of his pillow against her cheek and the way the sun burned orange on the other side of her eyelids. Through his cracked window the city hums, nearly sentient; cars rushing past in the street outside, and the occasional voice rising far enough to filter into the third story apartment. It’s peaceful, feels like warm summer mornings with Jess and Rose, the unfamiliar emotion blooming in her chest like spring.

 

When her eyes finally flutter open, adjusting to the bright light bouncing off of his sheets slowly, Ben turns to greet her with a smile. He’s sitting up, back against the wall and headphones around his neck as he works on his laptop (Rey wonders at the sight of him, thinks she could get used to mornings like this).

 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he rumbles, one hand abandoning his keyboard in favor of tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Rey leans into the touch gladly, hopes against all odds that she won’t wake up in the cool of her room to find the last fourteen hours were a dream. Ben sets his computer on the desk next to the bed, and leans down to kiss Rey in earnest, lips slightly chapped where they press against her own. All worries of dreams dispelled, she melts into the kiss and the sun that spills across the sheets, content to live in this moment forever.

 

They spend what feels like entire days curled together on his bed. Ben opens his laptop back up to show her the song he’d been working on while she slept, chord progressions tidily mapped out on the software in front of them. Rey traces one line with her finger, smiles when he picks up the jazz master propped against his desk and plays it out for her.

 

“We’re going to put out an album soon,” he explains, eyes bright as he glances between her and the creamy finish of his guitar. “I’m writing most all of the music these days, with input from Poe on lyrics.” His excitement nearly fills the whole room, mixing with the sun and city noise to send Rey’s heart racing.

 

He walks her back to her car around noon, gym bag slung over one shoulder (he goes every morning around five, she’d learned), eyes lit up in the thin autumn sun. Rey holds her car keys loosely in one hand, wonders when she’ll see him again as they round the last corner before her car. Ben answers the question for her when they stop in front of her vehicle, fidgeting with the strap of his bag for a second before pulling her into a quick kiss.

 

“I’d like to take you out to dinner, if that’s alright.” She grins, surges up to kiss him again, and thinks she’s never felt as light as this when strong arms circle around her waist.

 

“That sounds really great.” Ben dusts a kiss across her temple and looks entirely too pleased with himself.

 

The whole way home Rey grins, heart beating staccato against her chest in the most pleasant way.

 

She doesn’t hear from him the next day, or the day after that. In fact, Ben seems to vanish off the face of the earth entirely, going radio silence for the longest amount of time since they’d begun their little dance. Rey replays their last encounter over and over again in her head, analyzing it from every perspective until it hangs over her eyes like a burial shroud. She doesn’t find any clarity though, no motive to cling to as she tries not to drown.

 

It feels fitting to her when rain sets in on the evening of the second silent day. The steady drum on her roof makes sense, and Rey knows that if the weather were any other way she’d resent it. But it doesn’t help, doesn’t abate the ache in her chest when she drives past street corners they’d kissed on, or when she wakes up in the morning with the taste of his lips in the back of her throat. If she didn’t know the way it felt so distinctly, she’d wonder if maybe this was hell.

 

By day three she sits in the center of Jess’s living room, unopened pack of reds in hand as she waits for the other girl to gather her things. She’d explained the whole situation to her and Rose the night before, tears in her eyes as she’d gotten to the end. It was _ridiculous,_ felt like a step (or nine) backwards. Rose had sat back, brows furrowed and knuckles white against the handle of her mug, working the problem. Jess had simply tied her hair up, and whipped out her phone to call out of work.

The sharp cold of November bites at her fingers as she and Jess wander along the slick concrete that lines the wharf, keeping a vigil lit only by what little light could penetrate the rain, and the funeral pyre of their cigarettes. The city glitters in the distance, cold and indifferent to her current state, Rey hates it a little.

 

“It just doesn’t make any _sense._ ” Her voice breaks on the last word, thick with smoke and close to tears. “I don’t understand what happened.” Jess nods, flicks the butt of her cigarette into the dingy water beneath them and reaches into her pocket for a new one. Her fingers are damp when they reach towards Rey, fresh red held carefully by the filter, and if her fingers could feel, she assumes they’d probably be warm, too.

 

“I know,” her friend offers, voice soft against the rain and the lap of the water at their feet. “I’m sorry.” There isn’t really anything else to say, a fact that hangs heavy in the air between them.

 

Rey lays alone in her bed that night, sheets kicked down to tangle between her feet, and listens to the rain beat a dirge against the roof. Rose and Jess will be over in the morning, she knows this. She has the whole weekend off, and there’s no way the pair will let her carry on in rotting against her sheets (how Rey feels about this, she doesn’t know). If this is how she goes, alone and cold at Ben Solo’s hand, at least she won’t go numb.

 

As she’d expected, her friends step into her home the next morning, eyes grim as they shake the rain from their hair. Rose ushers her into the shower, all gentle touches and carefully honed bedside manner, coaxing Rey into some semblance of human function. When she emerges from her bathroom, hair cold and dripping down her shoulders, Jess hands her a cup of coffee (Rey feels only the slightest prick of the heat against her palms) and directs her towards the closest chair.

 

“We’re going to a show tonight.” Rose states, leaving no room for argument. “You can drive if you want, but we’re going.” Rey stares down into her mug, looks for answers in the bottom of the still steaming coffee, gives a reluctant nod of consent when she finds none. They finish their coffee in silence, and go through the motions of getting ready before piling into Rey’s little car, air thick with rain and tension.

 

The venue is, of course, the same one as the first time they’d drug her out to a show; irony not lost on Rey as she parks on the outskirts of the gravel lot. It’s raining harder this time though, and there’s no show goers milling about before the set, no smell of weed (just the rain and the faint ocean smell that permeates the air this close to the wharf). There’s no sign of Ben’s car, or the First Order van, and Rey feels her shoulders relax incrementally at the fact.

 

Even that’s not enough to calm the rapid beat of her heart though, not when they enter the venue and the smell of sweat and tobacco floods her nose. This place, even though she’s hardly spent more than a few hours here, is filled with the memory of Ben; he’s everywhere from the dirty concrete floor to the silence between chords as the first band begins to play. So much so, that two sets in when Poe and Finn duck out of the rain and into the oppressive heat of the warehouse-turned-venue, Rey isn’t particularly surprised to see them carrying equipment. Ben isn’t far behind, all damp hair and tired eyes when he carries his guitar out of the rain (her heart clenches, and Rey wonders for a second if she’s going to throw up).

 

It takes him about fifteen minutes to spot her, fifteen minutes of Rey biting her lip and desperately wanting to run, concrete at her back. She’s vacant, barely there, corporeal form seemingly melting away as the man who’s haunted her thoughts for the last three days sets up his set as if she wasn’t even there. Rose and Jess are gone, lost in the crowd, and she’s got only the beat of her heart for company when he finally spots her. For a second, everything seems to stop, and Rey can’t help the edge of vindictive pride that stabs between her ribs when his face contorts into something like heartbreak at the sight of her.

 

He glances behind him once, and then starts to make his way through the crowd, drawn to her even as she takes a halting step back. She doesn’t want to do this, not now, not when she can’t feel her fingers for the cold. Not when she casts a desperate glance around the room for her friends, and only finds Tara’s painfully familiar head of blonde hair posted up by the loading doors. Certain now that she’s one foot in the grave, Rey brings her eyes back up to Ben’s (he’s more than halfway to her, shouldering disgruntled audience members out of the way in his desperation) and turns on her heel.

 

The sting of November rain on her face is the closest thing to comfort Rey’s felt all week when she bursts out of the door and into the cold. Without looking back, she shoves her fingers into the pockets of her jacket and darts across the empty street to her car. She doesn’t care where Jess and Rose are, knows they’ll put two and two together as soon as they realize she’s gone, only cares about opening up as much distance between herself and Ben Solo’s haunted stare as she can. Her fingers are clumsy and cold when she fumbles for the pack of cigarettes in her pocket, imagines tearing through trauma stitches when she flicks the lighter and takes a long drag. He doesn’t follow her out into the rain, and Rey loses track of how long she leans against her car before her friends jog across the street to her.

 

“Baby,” it’s Rose who speaks first, concern written clearly across her face, “hey what happened?”

 

“Three fucking guesses,” Jess snaps, and Rey is glad for her friend’s sharp tongue when Rose bites her lip.

 

“I’m leaving,” is all she offers, dropping the butt of her cig onto the gravel as she unlocks the car. “if you two want to stay I’m sure Finn will give you a ride home.” Jess nods, and Rose just stares, crestfallen.

 

Smoke and shame mingle on her lips while she watches the pair trudge back towards the venue, she was stupid to have gotten her hopes up in the first place.

 

Rey takes the longest possible route back to her flat, all four windows down and her left hand outstretched to embrace the sharp hit of rain against her palm (she can feel that much, at least). Already, she can feel the walls she’d tried so hard to pull down building back up around her, feel the stone in her fingers when she locks her car and walks alone into the relative warmth of her building. By the time she stands alone in her living room Rey thinks she’s nothing more than a girl made of granite, cold and shot through with fault lines. Robotically she sheds her coat, then her shirt, slowly stripping as she makes her way towards the bathroom.

 

The floor is cold against her feet, colder even than the line of her lips when she pauses to stare into the mirror, or the spray of her shower when she steps beneath it. She should have seen this coming, should have seen the end before it even began. Weighed down by the memory of Ben’s eyes as he’d tried to close the distance between them, Rey presses her shoulders back against the slick tile wall, and slides to the ground. If she closes her eyes and focuses on the water that beats against her face, Rey can almost ignore the way her house feels like it has become a tomb.


	8. no good/no better

When Rose and Jess enter the bathroom, she’s still in the shower, lips slightly blue and eyes nearly black from where they stare unblinkingly at the wall opposite her. Jess swears, voice sharp against the cold tile as she darts forward to turn the water off, and the barest hint of Finn’s cologne clings to Rose’s clothes when she helps Rey up. They fuss over her in silence, flitting back and forth in the tiny room, towels in hand and concern clear across their faces. It’s familiar, a sharp reminder that it hasn’t even been that fucking long since Rey was last here, broken on her bathroom floor.

 

Once she’s dry, Jess ushers Rey into bed, pulls the blanket up from the floor to pool around her waist, and crosses the room to open the windows before crawling into bed beside her. They sit like that while Rose bustles around in the kitchen, sending wild shadows dancing across the light that slants in through the bedroom door. Rain and city sounds mingle outside, drifting in through the thrown open windows to offer some break to the silence (Rey almost wishes they wouldn’t, tombs are supposed to be quiet, after all). Rose enters a few moments later, glass of water in one hand, and a pack in the other; together the three of them sit with their backs against Rey’s headboard, passing a cigarette between them mechanically.

 

“Breathe,” Rose murmurs when her chest starts to contract, if she could feel Rey imagines her friend’s fingers would be warm where they curled around the offered glass, “drink some water.” It feels like years since Rey had whispered those same words to Ben, cocooned in the hopeful warmth of her best friend’s kitchen.

 

Rey doesn’t know exactly when she falls asleep, lulled into uneasy rest by the rain’s steady casket rhythm and the press of her friend’s arms against her own; but when she wakes it’s with her head on Jess’s shoulder, and Rose slumped into her lap. The rain still beats down, blurring the edges of the buildings outside and pooling on the floor beneath her window. A glance at her phone reveals two missed calls and one voicemail from Ben, like a knife twisted up into her ribcage. She just sighs, wishes for a cigarette to wrap her lips around, and clears the notifications.

 

Jess offers to give it a listen when Rey mentions the voicemail over breakfast (a steaming cup of coffee and one slice of slightly burnt piece of toast), but she just shakes her head. She doesn’t really want to know what he has to say, doesn’t think it would particularly change anything anyways. Jess just nods and lets the silence creep back into the room around them; Rey sips her coffee and comforts herself with the knowledge that she hadn’t ever been enough for anyone before, why would it be different this time around?

 

Almost as if she’d never clawed her way up into the world of the living in the first place, Rey goes right back to pretending at being alive. November trades it’s steady rain in for December, and the soft blanket of snow that falls to bury the city feels right. It dampens all of the white noise that tries to penetrate the heavy quiet of Rey’s apartment, replaces it all with the special kind of hush that comes with winter. Her bed is unmade again, sheets strewn across the floor where they’d been kicked during some nightmare or another (she has them almost every night, but the exact content always escapes her the second her eyes fly open).

More often than not, Rose and Jess stay the night with her, crowded into her bed with warm arms and the promise of spring on their lips. Finn comes around too, unused to the well-rehearsed dance the other two women make around Rey, but learning quickly. His presence is warm, steady in a way she’s wholly unused to, and Rey catches herself wishing that she had the words to thank him properly. Unbeknownst to the girls, he updates Ben on the situation as it develops, sending short, sad texts to his bandmate ( _Rey didn’t eat today,_ he taps across his phone screen one snowy Tuesday morning, _Rose is taking her to the no-kill shelter to groom the cats_ ). It’s a fucking mess, the whole thing; he desperately wishes his idiot friend wasn’t too busy with his self-imposed exile to come fix his mistake. As much as Finn would like to help, to sit his two friends down and just hash the whole thing out, he knows (like he now knows Rey takes her coffee black and scalding) that they’ll have to work this out on their own. He can only sit back and help Rose keep Rey’s head above water, a feat much easier said than done.

 

New Year’s Eve dawns cold and bright, almost-January sun blinding when it hits the sides of mirrored buildings. Rey looks for all the world like she hasn’t slept since November; sitting still and cold on the counter while Rose does her makeup. Jess leans up against the wall beside her, scrolls through the list of people “attending” Poe’s party on the event page, and assures the room in general that no, Ben won’t be there. The declaration doesn’t garner a reaction, save for the soft sound of Rey picking at her cuticles. The party is loud, an excuse to lose herself in the bottom of a red solo cup and some stranger’s arms, but it doesn’t help (especially not when she spends the better half of thirty minutes trying to hide a bruise sucked into her throat the next morning).

 

It’s Jess who, midway through January, sits Rey down in her kitchen with a pack of reds and a grim expression.

 

“I talked to Poe,” she starts, and Rey already knows whatever comes next won’t be good. “Ben and Tara have broken up for real this time.” There’s no leap of her heart, no grand physiological reaction to the news, just the dull, steady ache in the back of her head that she’s grown so accustomed to. “I guess-” Jess pauses, and Rey reaches for the pack to unwrap it as her friend hesitantly continues, “I guess she faked a pregnancy, lied to make him stay.” Rey just nods, too exhausted really to do more than that, and taps the pack against her palm before pulling a cigarette out to dangle between cold fingers.

 

She wishes the news brought any sort of comfort, that the glimpse into Ben’s motivations did _anything_ to bring some sense of peace; but instead she just feels more than ever like her stomach is filled with grave soil. Jess watches, carefully gauging her reaction as Rey crosses her living room, steps heavy with the coffin on her back to grab a coat. They sit out on her balcony for what feels like hours, smoking in silence with their feet dangling over the edge. Rey savors the smoke on her tongue and rolls the new information around in her head again and again and again.

 

After that, news on Ben seems to trickle down to her on an almost daily basis. Finn hands her a cup of coffee over his kitchen counter hardly four days later, shakes his head sadly when he tells her that Ben’s been MIA for the last three weeks. No one’s seen him at all, calling out from First Order rehearsals and barely making it into work. His absence is everywhere, from the off-white walls of the café, to the street corner outside the Falcon (Rey doesn’t think she’s ever felt the lack of someone so sharply before). She hates him, probably; but she also catches herself wondering how the album is going, if he’s using this time to finish tracking out all of the songs.

 

By the time February draws to a close, all watery sunlight and the promise of spring in the air, Rey is number than even last fall, fingers like phantom limbs where they rest against her thighs. She feels like a corpse exhumed, dragging her bones from bed to work and back again. The sun has started to stay up longer, bathing the city in more and more of its light each day. It’s no longer pitch black when Rey leaves the café after closing, now the skyline stands in relief against the heavy indigo of an almost-night sky. It’s one such night when and Rose lingers in the café while she and Jess close, two sets of eyes tracking her every move as she flicks off the lights.

 

“We should go get a beer,” Rose ventures, “it’s a beautiful night, and the view from the fire pits will be great.” Rey is too tired to argue, doesn’t have a leg to stand on when her friend concludes, “plus, I know Ben doesn’t work tonight, so it should be safe.”

 

Rey clings to those words as they make the pilgrimage from the bar to the fire pits outside, builds it up around herself like some great shield. _He isn’t here, he won’t be here_ , she repeats to herself until she believes it. She _has_ missed the bitter flavor of IPA on her tongue, almost enjoys the act of standing outside with her friends, free of the oppressive silence that comes with her room (Rey wishes she could feel the flame in any capacity, but all her fingers pick up is what winter still hangs in the air). Finn joins them after about twenty minutes, smiling and joyous as he pulls her into a hug, warm enough that even Rey can almost feel it in the tips of her fingers.

 

The fires leap and dance in the still air like funeral pyres, and Rey wishes she was surprised when the familiar mop of dark hair ducks through the door and into the outdoor seating. Ben’s eyes are on hers instantly, all bruised irises and heavy gloom across the fire. He doesn’t move towards her, just holds his apron in one loose hand and studies the hard line of her lips. Time seems to stand still, or at least slows enough for Rey to finish her beer and back away from the flames (eyes still on Ben, like he might rush her if she let her gaze drop). No one tries to stop her as she leaves, a gesture she appreciates all the more when Ben’s brow knits, and he watches her go like she’s got the stars hung around her head.

 

He tries to call her again that night, her phone ringing incessantly against the cold linoleum of her kitchen floor. Rey sits with her back pressed to the oven and watches, wonders when hell became her home.

 

Spring sets into the city in earnest, but she’s colder than ever, internal temperature stuck somewhere in between November and December. She and Jess drive down to the wharf one sunny Saturday morning, sit on the hood of her friend’s car as they smoke and count the migratory shore birds that have started to flock back to the warming water. They’re halfway through the pack, comfortably silent save for water against the shore and the soft slap of webbed feet on wet sand when Jess speaks.

 

“You should talk to him.” There’s no need to specify _who_ exactly, and she deeply resents the fact. “You’re tearing each other apart.” Rey fumes, stares out at the frigid water to watch the sun that dances across it, and knows her friend is right.

 

She doesn’t know how to initiate the conversation though, doesn’t even really know what she wants out of it (besides closure maybe. A sense of this being truly over, instead of the traitorous hope that still blooms between her ribs). Nearly a whole week has passed before any forward progress is made; a week in which Rey dwells on the past few months, hashes and re-hashes her feelings until there’s no two ways about it. She doesn’t quite know _when_ she fell in love with Ben Solo, or what the fuck she’s going to do about it, especially considering the situation, but the fact sits heavy on her tongue nonetheless.

 

Rey doesn’t particularly believe in fate, or some omnipotent being pulling strings from out in the cosmos; but she also knows when to take a fucking hint. Which is why, when she hears the bell hung over the Cantina door jingle, she doesn’t run from the painfully familiar sight of Ben pulling his ID out for the bouncer. Instead, she exchanges a weary glance with her two friends over half-finished beers, and pulls a cigarette from the pack in her pocket. Ben’s eyes are heavy on her shoulders when she slips off of the barstool, and it only takes one glance for him to follow her out onto the abandoned smoking deck.

 

It looks exactly the same as it had the last time they were here, all dirty wooden picnic tables and the cheap slatted fence. Rey flicks her lucky lighter, perches on the lip of one table, and regards Ben through the smoke that curls around her face. He stands with both hands deep in the pockets of the leather jacket he’d slung around her shoulders so long ago, eyes cast down to his shoes. She can see him fidgeting with what she assumes is a pack of camel blues in his right-hand pocket, and waits for him to light a cigarette of his own before prompting him to speak with one raised eyebrow.

 

“I,” he starts, eyes still downcast, “I’ve been a giant douche” (it’s an understatement and they both know it). Rey scoffs, meets his eyes when they dart up to her face and takes a drag. Ben takes the cue to continue, eyes holding hers the whole time, “she told me she was pregnant and I panicked.” This time, Rey feels a surge of anger crash against her ribs that sends her eyes narrowing, rage that anyone could pull a blow so low. He takes a hesitant step in towards her, every line of his body straining to close the chasm between them.

 

“I don’t-” he raises his cigarette to his lips, “I don’t know why I believed her, why I let her keep me under her thumb.” Rey’s heart breaks a little, and she hates him for it. Ben takes another step towards her, flicks his cig once before continuing, “I should have talked to you about it, I was so wrong to cut contact like that.” The hand not holding his cigarette runs anxiously through his hair, “I’m such a fucking asshole, Rey.”

 

She nods in agreement, flicks her own cigarette and continues to watch, expression carefully guarded. His stare traces over her face, lingering particularly on the bags that hang beneath her eyes, and the line of her brow when it knits.

 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.” Broad shoulders slump at the admission, defeat written across his lips. “But I’m so, so sorry.” Rey wants to kiss him, to pull his frame into her chest until she can feel his warmth again, anything other than the winter that’s so set up among her bones. Instead she stubs out her cigarette and pats the table beside her, as much of an invitation as she’s willing to give. Ben takes it readily, rushes to sit on the bench beneath her, presses his face into her stomach with a something that’s dangerously close to a sob.

 

“I don’t deserve this.” He mumbles into her shirt even as his arms come up to circle around her waist. Rey weaves her fingers into his hair and pretends not to feel the tears that soak through her thin cotton camisole (she doesn’t particularly agree with that statement, but something in between her lungs tells her there will be time to address that later). They sit like that until bar break: Ben as prostrate as their position will allow, chapped lips offering apologies long after Rey considers them strictly necessary.


	9. fine, great

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we are. thank you all so, so much for taking the time to comment, kudos, and share this piece- i wasn't anticipating such a reaction, and your love and support truly means the whole world. i'm really glad, and endlessly humbled that my little whirlwind fic was able to connect with so many incredible people, i love you all dearly.
> 
> thank you especially to maddy ( _reygrets_ ) who has been at my back since day one with this fic, and is the only reason that it got off the ground, not to mention actually landed in the end. she's an incredible friend, and just as incredible a beta, i owe her about a billion beers.
> 
> also, if you're interested in the songs each chapter is titled after, i've compiled them into a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/zoeyarizona/playlist/4R7BIZLJLKeBlkXbEgfCkZ?si=9vcV1gAyR2GYvzyFVKiWBA)

There are a handful of phrases that Rey has found herself frequently revisiting over the course of her short, occasionally shitty life. Some of them are to be expected ( _breathe deep, drink water_ ), some of them simply a product of her job ( _latte on bar_ ), and others born out of bad habits ( _pass the lighter, Jess_ ). This last year though, the one that rings the most consistently in her ears, like the reverb setting on one of Ben’s pedals is: _healing isn’t linear_. It had been fresh on her lips all through the late summer and early fall, traded out for a different string of words ( _never enough_ ) through the winter; and now, midway through April, returns to the forefront of her mind.

 

March had passed slowly, maybe more so than any other month so far this year save for January. It had been filled with Ben at the café, nervously watching her from the bar as he’d clutched a cooling mug of drip to his broad chest. It takes a few hesitant, awkward days, but she starts to offer him little smiles that taste like chocolate pudding and tobacco, not a lot, but a start. The sun comes back, lingering longer and longer in the sky each day, and for the first time since walking out of her then-boyfriend’s house all those months ago, Rey feels like she’s seeing straight again. It was a long, weird road back to a sense of almost-normalcy, but one she was glad to have traveled despite pitfalls and blonde hair. With four days left in March Ben had asked to smoke out back with her on her break, and if Rey had held onto any illusions of denying him, they were shattered.

 

Ben, like Jess, was a master of companionable silence, and for the first time since everything had gone to shit, Rey found herself stealing fluttering glances at him through her eyelashes. He was an aside in her journey that she hadn’t anticipated, a lesson in trusting one’s stomach, in waiting (and, for the first time in her life, maybe actually getting what she had waited for). His arm brushed against hers with every raise of the cigarette to his lips, like water at the wharf; and Rey thinks that if he was the tide, then she was the rocks at the shore with his waves breaking over her. It became a ritual with little pomp or celebration; and like clockwork Ben would stride into the café a few minutes before she untied her apron, eyes warm with spring sun and something Rey couldn’t quite put her finger on.

 

Now it is midway through April, and Rey still has to tell jess about once a week that _no_ she and Ben _aren’t dating_. Or at least, she doesn’t think they are. They haven’t kissed, haven’t touched any more than his desperate apologies into her stomach that night behind the Cantina, don’t go on dates or really even talk all that much. They just… She struggles for words under the heavy stares of her two best friends.

 

“We just _are_.” It’s all she has, though judging by the way Jess yawns, and Rose leans closer across the kitchen counter, it isn’t enough.

 

“He’s come into your place of employment to smoke out back with you every day since you made up,” Rose begins, clearly unimpressed with her friend’s assessment of the situation, “you text nearly daily, correct?” Rey begrudgingly nods, even as a notification from the man in question pings against her leg. “You two might not be engaging in a lot of physical contact, but it sure sounds to me like dating.”

 

Rey rolls her eyes and unlocks her phone, desperately ignoring the snide little voice in the back of her head (that sounds suspiciously like Poe) when it whispers _sure looks like you’re heading that way though_.

 

The café smells like springtime, the scent of wet asphalt and growing grass wafting in through the thrown open front door as Rey stands outside the back room after clocking off her opening shift. Her phone is alight with texts from Rose and Jess, an email from her alma mater, and two texts from Ben. _Fourth track is done!_ The first one reads, and Rey grins; it had been a particularly challenging song for Ben to write, though she doesn’t know why (hasn’t heard it either, but assumes it’s got something to do with the content). _How was opening?_ She ambles up to the counter and orders two drinks: an iced coffee with one shot of espresso (her), and a mocha no whip (Ben).

 

_Not bad,_ she replies, leaning one hip against the granite counter while she waits, half an ear on Jess’s conversation behind bar with their other coworker. _The old guy who keeps trying to steal the honey came in again._ As if reading her mind, Jess gestures towards the condiment bar and snarls something about “senile honey thieves” _. Jess looked like she was going to kill him._

Pausing in her tirade long enough to hand the drinks over, Jess throws a sly glance Rey’s way over the countertop,

 

“Off to the studio?” Unable to lie to her friend, Rey just rolls her eyes and picks up the to go cups.

 

“Nope, just gonna drink forty ounces of coffee on my own, Pava.”

 

Her friend laughs, bright and warm in the midday sun, and Rey doesn’t bother to try and hide her smile as she heads for the door.

 

The studio is about a ten minute drive from the café, on the corner of third avenue that looks out over the inlet. Parking is a nightmare to find, as always, but the newly returned seagulls that wheel and cry above her make the two-block stroll downright enjoyable. Ben’s car is parked about a block down from hers, innocuous against the mirrored building beside it, and Rey feels her heart pick up just a little at the sight. She doesn’t really understand the routine they’ve settled into, has no clue what she’d call him if she had a mother to call and ask about potential sons in law, but the thing that blooms between them feels good (feels _hopeful_ ).

 

The contrast between this spring and the one before it is stark, Rey thinks as she steps over a particularly deep puddle, she can actually smell the change in the air this time. Her fingers don’t prick with January cold, she doesn’t feel like she’s carrying her coffin on her back. When Jess and Rose tear into her house with all the delicacy of a tornado, it’s not to pull her out of the shower or make sure she’s eaten; instead now they bring bottles of champagne and the news that Finn and Poe just signed a lease down the street.

 

She and Ben have talked about it a little, touched here and there on how completely different their positions are this spin around the sun. He tells her how he feels like for the first time in his adult life there’s no voice in his head, she looks out the window and falteringly lays out the events of last March (Ben’s knuckles go white where they grip the edge of the table, and Rey wonders what would happen if she  kissed them). The air between them still hums with the same tension it always has, seems to snap with some kind of near-sentience as they dance around one another; she catches him staring at her lips more often than not, knows he watches the way her eyes trail up his forearms while he plays.

 

Neither of them make any move to hide their intentions; _especially_ not Ben when he asks her to date him one afternoon in the studio after he’d finished tracking out the album’s second song (she says no, presses a kiss against his cheek when she leaves), and the honestly brings a ghost of a smile to Rey’s lips every time she thinks on it. After the cataclysmic events of the late fall and winter, Ben’s communication has taken a turn for the blunt: unerringly straightforward in all he does. It’s a new thing for Rey to adjust to, but she doesn’t mind, used to Rose and Jess and their complete inability to dance around anything.

 

He ghosts a kiss over her temple when she steps into the booth, one arm around her waist and his nose in her hair as he mumbles his thanks.

 

“I wasn’t angling for coffee, you know,” Ben teases, pulling back just enough to set the coffee down beside his laptop before wrapping both arms around her again. Poe on the other side of the glass, howling into the mic with a bottle of water in his hand, unaware of Rey’s eyes on him. Ben thinks they’ll have the tracking done by June, hopes to start recording in July; the prospect makes his eyes light up, and Rey could listen to him talk about it forever.

 

“I know,” she replies, bumps her nose against his jaw before pulling away. “I just wanted an excuse to come see you.” Ben grins, sips his coffee and watches Poe for just a second.

 

“You don’t ever need an excuse for that.” The admission hangs heavy in the tiny room, and Rey feels suddenly like she’s run up three flights of stairs.

 

He calls her from the studio most nights, lighting up her phone around eleven thirty like clockwork. Rey always picks up, usually from bed (she bought new sheets last month; they’re beige and soft, and make her think of summer when she lays on them), but always smiling when his tired voice rumbles across the line.

 

“Having a good night?” He asks every time, and she can imagine him reclining in the studio’s shitty office chair, Stratocaster lovingly held in one hand. Rey usually laughs, updates him on Jess and Rose’s shenanigans, tries not to say “I love you” when she hangs up. There’s one night where she thinks Ben almost lets the three words slip past his tongue, and the realization settles warmly between her chest and fresh sheets as she slips into sleep (he flushes bright red next time he comes into the café).

 

By the time May begins to fade into June, Ben spends more nights tangled in Rey’s sheets than his own. They’re sleeping together, but they aren’t _sleeping_ together: a distinction she hammers home again and again for Jess and Rose, who just roll their eyes. It smells like summer outside, and Rey’s windows almost never close, letting the smell of hot air and budding leaves fill her tiny loft. Ben buries a smile into her pillow each morning, tightens his arm around her waist when she mumbles his name.

 

“You’re coming to the house show tonight, right?” He asks into her pillow one morning as she bustles around the bedroom before work. Rey casts her eyes over his body, sprawled out under the blankets (she knows he’ll make the bed with military precision before he leaves) and relishes the smile that spreads across her face.

 

“Yeah,” she slings her purse over one shoulder, “I’ll be there.” Ben nods, tugs the blankets up a little higher over his chest, and blinks up at her reverently.

 

“Good.” She wants to kiss him, wants to call out of the café and spend the whole day in his arms, but instead Rey just braces one forearm against the mattress and presses her lips to the edge of his mouth. “Have a good day at work.”

 

 Jess and Rose stomp into her loft about an hour before the first set, grinning and brilliant under the setting sun. The three of them get ready like they always do, Jess DJing as Rose sits Rey on the counter and begins to dust powder across her eyelids. It’s comfortable, familiar and warm in the same way it’s always been, Rey hopes they never stop crowding into her too-small bathroom before shows.

 

“Ben crashing here tonight?” Jess teases as she pops a stick of gum into her mouth, Rey rolls her eyes and ducks into Rose’s car, “I doubt it.”

 

It’s clear she’s the only one in the vehicle who subscribes to that sentiment.

 

If Rey had thought that house shows in the fall had been oppressively hot, she had no clue what to think of them in the summer. There are people everywhere, skin bare and eyes flashing under multicolored lights; Rey beelines for the kitchen-turned-bar, desperate to at least hold something cool, when Rose pokes her in the ribs and nods towards the door.

 

“There’s your not boyfriend.” Sure enough, when Rey pulls her eyes up from the beer she’d been pouring, Ben is already watching her. Rose waves before gesturing towards the spread of alcohol in front of them, and Ben shakes his head, raises his strat in one hand. First Order is slated to play third, and Finn informs them as he sips on a PBR that they’re going to play one of the new songs off the album. Jess and Rose raise their eyebrows, impressed, and Ben reaches down to steal a sip of Rey’s drink.

 

“Just a quick tease before the release show in August.” He shrugs, handing Rey back her drink.

 

Rey ducks out of the almost swamp-like heat after the second set, followed closely by her not-boyfriend. Jess had, over the course of the spring, decided to quit smoking; and while Rey was infinitely proud of her friend, she did miss her company outside between sets. Lucky lighter in hand, Rey sweeps her gaze over to Ben, watches the way he leans beside her on the wall, hands in his pockets and shoulders turned in towards her (she wants to kiss him even more than she had that morning).

 

“Don’t you have equipment to set up?”  Her voice is light, mostly teasing, she’s glad he’s beside her in the almost-twilight. Ben just shoves his fists a little deeper into his pockets, speaks offhandedly around the cigarette in his mouth.

 

“Guilty as charged.” But he doesn’t leave, just scoots closer to her on the wall until their arms are brushing, bare skin against worn leather. Rey tips her head back against the peeling paint, and blows a lungful of smoke into the air, hyperaware of his eyes on her throat. The air smells like garden soil and begonias in bloom, mingles with the cigarette smoke in her mouth when Rey inhales (fights the urge to turn in towards Ben and close the scant distance between them).

 

She’s sure Finn and Poe are bitching at the fact that they’re setting up the entire stage on their own, but Ben either doesn’t care or doesn’t even consider it. In either case, he doesn’t stub out his camel until she’s ashed her cigarette into the provided can, careful not to disturb the flowers that grow around them. Rey heads for the door, already preparing herself for the humid heat that’s sure to greet them, stops to smile when Ben darts past her to hold it open.  

 

He’s beautiful, standing between the crowd that roils within the house and the soft breeze that luffs at his hair. Rey almost wishes she hadn’t paused to stare, heart in her throat with the way Ben is looking at her (like she’s got every single star in the galaxy hung around her head). He swallows, throat contracting tightly under her stare, and takes a shallow breath.

 

His whole body screams of wanting to kiss her, the intention written clearly across his lips and the line of his shoulders at the door. Rey’s heart hammers wildly, pulse jumping in her throat, and she’s spent so _long_ denying herself this, refusing to take the leap. Ben licks his lips, looks like he’s about to say something, and Rey can’t remember why she’d been so scared, when he woke up next to her each morning _so_ open and vulnerable.

 

Before Ben can begin to voice his thoughts, Rey digs her heels into the chipseal that winds throughout the front yard, and closes the distance between them to press her lips against his. Ben reacts instantly, arms coming up to wrap around her waist as he shifts his full weight onto the door behind them to better hold her.

 

A huge cheer erupts from the crowd within the house, Rose and Jess’s voices standing out among the cacophony. Rey’s sure they’re going to get noise complaints in the morning, grins into the kiss when someone that sounds suspiciously like Finn whoops and starts to bang on a pan (Ben takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth).

 

“Hey,” he breathes when they pull apart, eyes almost as wild as his hair. Rey dusts her lips across the bridge of his nose, grins at the blush that rides high on his cheeks as he pulls one arm away from her waist to flip their audience off.

 

“Date me?”

 

Rey says yes.


End file.
